Redux 2: The City of Blinding Lights
by Someone072
Summary: After months of self-imposed exiles, Gar Logan finds himself under a blood red sky in Gotham City. His pursuit of the men who've stolen away two of his closest friends, the Watchman plunges his hand into the filth of Gotham for answers... but at what cost? Rated M for heavy language, violence, alcohol references, and depression.
1. Under a Blood Red Sky

A/N: Yes, I'm doing a rewrite of Redux 2. Why? I hated the last version, I really did. Gar was too violent, too soon. Not to mention he was a bit of an all-knowing prick. No, he's not there yet. Those who've read Watchman (Draft One) will recognize the titles. This story takes some themes from Watchman: City of Blinding Lights as well as Watchman's "Under a blood red sky" arc. And unlike the last Redux 2, I ACTUALLY KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING. I'm not just winging this one, I have a plot done up for this so it should be finished. Besides, this story will have the big arc that I've been begging to write since 2008. Gar's still Gar, he's not a zombie, but you'll notice he's a little different. Details will be explained in the coming chapters so bare with me.

**Under a Blood Red Sky...**

"_It almost felt real, talking to him there in my kitchen. I could see the tired look in his eyes, the pain of seeing so much misery pulling at his face. Garfield Logan, a man I've only known for a little over a year, seemed as though he was at the end of his rope and just waiting for the final push over the edge to end it all… But he wasn't really there, not even on this side of the country. I only had him on the brain because of the news that day, talking about the big headline coming out of Gotham City…"_

January 3, 2008

"So you've never been to Gotham, huh?" asks a man in his middle years, face sporting a thick, gray beard and mustache.

The rusting walls and damp corridors might as well be heaven compared to the hell his companion's been through. "No. Been to the Hub once but never Gotham."

"Well my friend, you're in for quite a treat." Through a bulkhead, the two emerge into the open air of a ship's deck, looking towards the lights in the distance. The smell of salt wraps around the men even as the cold, wintry breeze threatens to freeze them to their core. "It's a city unlike anything I've seen in the world. Trust me, I've been all over on these tin cans and let me tell you, Gotham's the place to be. Sure it's run down, crime-ridden, a bit too 1930s, and filled with lunatics but hey, what place isn't, huh?"

Looking over the railing, they can see the docks approaching despite the ship's slow speed coming into port. An island city, cut off from the mainland, that looks more like a steel monument to Hell than an American city.

"That's strange."

"What is?" the eager man replies, curious at his mate's expression.

"The sky. It's so red but it's not even sunset yet."

"Yeah, creepy isn't it? I've heard some rumors that it might be the blood of all the people who've died here over the years. Though it's probably because of all that pollution those factories keep pumping out."

Only silence for a reply from this mystery man, his green eyes staring intently forward. This city's pollution is the least of his worries; the people who live there fit that role.

"You know…" the man starts this time, turning away from the city. "You never did tell me just how you got onto this ship. You've been with us since December but we left port back in October."

"I swam."

Eyebrow raising at the reply, the elder asks simply "You swam here? You're kidding, right? We crossed the Pacific straight for Panama, didn't even come back to land until the Canal. Where the hell _would_ you swim _from_?"

Taking his eyes off the city, he turns it now to the man beside him. Perhaps it's his taller size but more likely the iron look in his eyes that makes his shipmate unconsciously wince at his gaze. "I swam from North to South. Good thing you found me before I drowned, hmm?"

"Yeah, I suppose…" As his mate turns back to the city, he ventures an opinion "You must've swam a long way then for us to find you out so far."

Around the ship are announcements to prepare for landing, several of the crew moving about as they move about their duties. Rising off the rail, the tall man tells the elder "Far enough where no one will find me. Looks like you can still find freedom out on the sea."

A duffel bag around their shoulders, the two men start to depart their ship along with the rest of the freighter's crew. Conversation abounds from topics ranging from women, a good night of drinking, and what kind of weirdoes will they run into on this stop.

"So what are your plans?"

Pushing aside a strand of black hair, the solemn man answers simply "Not sure. Think I'll take a walk into town, see what's to do around here."

"A city this big should have something for everyone, even someone as quiet as you." The wry grin on his face doesn't bring the intended expression from his companion.

Stone faced as ever, a simply "Maybe" is all he gets.

"I'm sure you'll find something to do. Women, booze, gambling, it's got it all. Maybe you'll get lucky and run into the Bat or something, that cold look of your's might even scare _him_."

"I hope to stay as far away from him as possible… A drink wouldn't be a bad idea though seeing as I haven't had once since October."

"There you go. Go on out, have a good time. We've been at sea too long now _not_ to."

"And what about you? Gonna follow the boys into town for a "show?""

A quick chuckle from the older man says it all. "Might just do that. It's not like I have an old bag at home waiting for me to pull into port. Women just get you into trouble."

Jinx… Kristine… Red… Raven… "Yeah, they do, don't they?"

Outside the two men walk down the steps then move to the side.

"Well kid, I hope you find what you're looking for. Are you sure you won't be coming back to the ship?"

A shake of the head, the man seems intent on his goal. "I'm sure. You've been generous enough to let me stowaway until we got here. I wouldn't want to push the ship's generosity any further."

A guffaw from the old sailor, slapping the man on the back, he retorts "I'm no old salt, boy, I know what you're saying. You're tired of being around a bunch of dicks and no pussy. Hey, a life at sea's not for everyone."

"Definitely not for me." Offering his hand, the stranger offers a final farewell. "Until we meet again?"

A broad smile on his aging face, the sailor offers his hand as well in a hearty handshake. "Yup, until we meet again. See ya around, stranger."

_My time on the ship had come to end and not a day too soon. The old man on the ship was right, I'm not cut out for a life on the ocean. Not that I didn't mind being out on the sea but being on a freighter with a bunch of homesick, raunchy, salty bunch like that was beginning to get on my nerves. They didn't even seem to mind too much that I just so happened to pop out of the ocean one day and flop onto the deck like a dead fish. Barely able to talk, barely able to move much less, they just accepted it like it was a common occurrence. Then again the life of a sailor's as close to eccentricity as you get._

_How I found the ship, I'm still not too sure. Just a voice in my head one day, telling me to swim South instead of the West route I was following. Over a month spent out at sea, my escape from it all coming to an end as I flopped onto the metal hull. The Lazarus Pit did it's job alright but the side effects haven't been pretty to deal with… neither have they helped my nightmares each time I fall asleep…_

_Gotham wasn't my favorite choice but I couldn't return to Jump City, not yet. I escaped with a bunch of Middle Eastern terrorists, apparently committed some horrible crime on an island after the pit, and probably put every friend of mine back in Jump City in mortal danger because of those bastard gangs. Can't return, not yet… Let the Watchman stay dead for awhile longer, until the time's right to come back._

… _after I've dealt with Jinx's murderer. Deadshot operates out of Gotham City and I've ignored his crime for far too long._

_One thing was clear: After spending over two months out at sea, I wasn't really prepared for how confining a city would feel. Especially a city like Gotham where the buildings just seem to crowd in on you, lean in on your shoulder, and press down on you like a hydraulic press. Not that the city wasn't chilling enough with it's hundred-year old buildings but that wind pounding in from the ocean just seemed to make the environment more unpleasant. _

_The people weren't much to look at neither but thanks to Q's holoring, they'd never think twice about a man my height, a light pale skin, and a full head of black hair. He wasn't kidding either when he said this city had a 30s feel to it, especially with all the older looking vehicles, the residents in suits and dresses, and more fedoras than your average college frat party. It almost made me feel normal, considering everyone in Jump seemed to eye me suspiciously for wearing a trench coat. Still, I'd need new clothes to blend into this urban time machine... and a safe haven. That's when I decided to make a phone call to a person I never thought I'd be calling._

Three rings of the phone in his ear, Gar leans inside the booth, wary of any passersby. It's bad enough the city can make you feel caged in but the looks on it's residents makes him feel he's caged in with people ready to blow at any minute. The articles about Gotham being one of most crime-filled and paranoid cities in America could be true after all.

"_Hello?"_ a woman's voice asks in the receiver, slightly irritable from the start.

"Is this Detective Montoya?"

"_This is my number, isn't it? Who is this?"_

Rather demanding, isn't she? "A friend of a mutual friend. Who that friend is _the question_, isn't it?"

A brief pause seems to tell him his contact information was accurate after all. _"If you're his friend, you better be more specific. Prove it."_

"Remember when the Hindenburg was shot down because they were actually carrying secrets of the Illuminati?"

"_Yeah, that's him. Who is this and what do you need?"_

"He told me I could rely on you if I ever found myself in Gotham. I'll save the names for when we meet later this evening." Damn, even in this phone booth that icy wind still gets to you. That collapsible door doesn't do anything for heat, does it?

"_I take it you're not from around here?"_

"No. Where should I meet you?"

"_There's a coffee shop on Market Street and 3__rd__. Be there at seven and we'll talk."_

"_I don't know why but that sky just keeps bugging me no matter how much I try to avoid it. Living in Jump for nearly eight full years must have made me used to blue skies and thin clouds. Here in Gotham it's just red sky with black clouds in the sky and more steam clouds from the factories. It's a no brainer people would go crazy in this city; it feels like bizarre world here. Old cars, Depression-era clothing, even those blimps that keep floating over the city, you'd think we were a few years away from the Nazis starting the war._

_Didn't take long to find a 7-11 and a few maps of the city. Maps make things easier because people can't track you like a GPS or internet connection. The one thing I glad Talia's men did was deactivate the GPS in my holoring, I never did like being followed by a computer, even if it was by Q. Found the coffee shop with time to spare and even enough time to visit a thrift store and buy some fresh clothes. Try living in the same jeans, t-shirt, and coat for the past two months and you'll see just how crazy YOU get."_

Gar sits at the end of the counter, sipping on a cup of tea as he waits for his guest. Not many people in the joint, most of them seem to be on the other side of the room which suits him just fine. The culture shock continues for the wayward vigilante as this coffee house seems fitting for a rendezvous in the 40s rather than a 21st century meeting. No fluorescent tubes in the ceilings, just low-priced chandeliers that would look better with just a little bit of cleaning. No bright, shiny colors for décor neither, just the brown oaks and red brick designs of a generation long passed. Nodding to himself, he resigns himself to another cup while trying to push aside the criticism in his mind.

"You're the one I spoke on the phone with, aren't you?"

Turning to the speaker, his curiosity is marked with surprise for a brief second before returning to his usual, neutral expression. "Detective Montoya I presume?"

A hand to stop him at her rank, she advises him "Renee will do for now."

"How'd you know I called you?"

Sitting on the stool next to him, she asks for a coffee while informing him "It's my job as a Detective to notice these things. Most of the people Q tends to work with are people you'd usually see standing out of the crowd."

"Referring to why I'm not over by the rest of the people on the other end?"

"That and you have that same pensive stare Q tends to have, even when he's hiding behind that mask."

A sip of the hot liquid for his nerves, Gar has to mentally give her credit. So it's time for the most obvious question of all. "You sound just like him. I take it he's worked with you as well?"

"Usually when he's working on a case involving Gotham, otherwise he's a bit harder to get in contact with."

An ironic, though hushed laugh from Gar rises from his chest. "Funny, he always seemed to be listening in on me when I was back home."

"Ju.. I mean the West Coast, right? That's where you came from?" The coffee arrives just in time, the cold air seeps in as another customer makes his way in.

"Yes. And before we get too acquainted, let's make sure Q doesn't know I'm here." The cold has Gar sipping on his drink as well, trying to force that chill away. "As far as everyone knows back home, I'm either dead or I've been missing for a few months."

"On the run from the law or your past?" she asks honestly, a sense of knowing in her own eyes.

"A temporary escape while I get some focus back into my life. Gotham wasn't my first choice but here I am."

"Everyone has their secrets, we can leave it at that." Clearing her throat, the business returning at hand. "So, what do you need exactly?"

"I don't have any money at the moment, I didn't have time to get it before I left home. For the time being I need a place to sleep. Normally I'd sleep in abandoned buildings but Gotham's much colder this time of year than back home."

"As long as you don't do anything stupid, you can use my couch." Noticing the look on his face, she warns him "But don't get the wrong idea. You might be a friend of Q's but if you do anything stupid…"

The look of seriousness on his face seems just a bit more intense than her own, a fact she notes in her mind quite clearly. "You're a Gotham officer as well as a mutual friend. Trust me, after spending the last 8 weeks or so on a freighter, I'd be glad if you told me to sleep in a closet as long as I had a pillow."

That last comment brings a small laugh on her own part. "Yeah, you're definitely one of his friends. You have that same dry humor he has."

A smile on his own face, even a small one, he offers "I just lack his eccentric charm as he'd say."

To his relief, she doesn't make him sleep in the confines of a tiny closet. Even more to his relief was she even offered him use of her shower, a pleasure denied to him since the day prior to his beating at Baptist's hand. So what if the apartment was small compared with her detective's salary, it certainly beats living in a broken down gas station or a dirty clinic any day. A stiff couch beats a sleeping bag on rocks or a beaten, dusty sofa in a stale, weary garage.

Even as he lies on the couch, staring at the ceiling, he finds his thoughts drifting to his life over the past few months. The popcorn-spackled ceiling with faint traces of glitter shining in the window light outside seem like sparkles of stares he once stared out from the decks of the ship. The mighty Pacific giving way to the famed Atlantic, still doesn't take away the awkward feeling of being rocked to sleep each night by an unpredictable sea. The couch doesn't roll like his bunk, for good or ill, he can't be too sure…

"Maybe tonight I won't have nightmares. Maybe this city will treat me better than North Jump…"

… how very wrong he finds his hopes as he drifts off into sleep on this cold night in Gotham City.

* * *

A/N2: First chapter done, only took 2 hours to write. Before you ask (despite it being in the beginning), this is prior to the final arc of Redux 1. Gar's arrival in Gotham is four months before the end of that story. And before you ask me this one too, Jake didn't see Gar for real in his kitchen. Why did he dream about him? That's for later in this story. I like the idea that Question has more than one confidant, especially one that's rooted in the DC comics history. And yes, Gar will be going after Deadshot in this arc... but he's going to need some help from more than just Montoya, eh Mackie?

Trivia:  
- Story title is "The City of Blinding Lights" ref. from U2's song of the same title.  
- Arc title is "Under a Blood Red Sky" from the lyrics of U2's "New Year's Day", ironic considering I didn't realize the title's only 2 days off from the date of this chapter until just now.  
- Yes, I'm including Detective Montoya from the Batman cartoons (but with more comics influence in this version, you'll see in the next chapter what I mean).  
- The opening scene with the boat was influenced from the first scene in Grand Theft Auto IV with Niko coming to Liberty City.

Rhetorical: It's amazing how stories in your head just won't die, even if you try to kill them. But from here on out, this story's entirely new territory for me. After all, the original Watchman 3 only went halfway into it's plot, so this is gonna be new for to write and new for all of you (legit new, not just a new draft).


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: We're still taking this story slow (I say story because all stories have introduction, rising action, then finale). For fans of Watchman Draft One, prepare to nerd out. Lets just say my spellchecker isn't fond of me right now and all the accented words this chapter pumped out. What's important though is Gar's on his way, setting up something interesting for Chap 3. Enjoy, mackies.

**Under a Blood Red Sky...**

* * *

"_The nightmares came just as they always do; never any escape from them either. Some nights I might see Jinx, the bullet-torn wound in her head never stopping her from whispering to me in a pale, deathly voice. Always with that raspy, pleading voice… "Why couldn't you save me?" or something like that, nothing but death in her eyes and only her lips quivering with each word._

_Sometimes I don't see Jinx; I see Kristine. Her body torn apart as if she'd tried to dive on to the top of a large chainsaw, blood all throughout that apartment. Any memories I might've held for that apartment, the moments we shared through those warm nights, they vanish at the thought of her gruesome, violent death. Unlike Jinx, she doesn't speak to me; that's something for me to do in my sleep. Reaching out to her, asking for forgiveness for not stopping her killer…_

_And on the rare nights I see what must've happened on that island off of the coast. Never anything much, just the Lazarus Pit and then a whirling vortex of black, jets of crimson blood as I move about. I can hear the screams; that terrifying sound of people in their final moments like lambs being led to the slaughter. Arms, pieces of skin flying around as gunfire echoes in the background but the stream of black bats obscures what little I can see already. Whatever happened on that island, whatever I did after the Lazarus Pit, I'm not sure if I could forgive myself I did what I think I've done… When I killed those men outside the garage, they were a victim of an incidental death. Those men on that island though… Could I have killed them willingly?"  
_

* * *

The next morning, Detective Montoya enters the room to a strange sight indeed. Rather than sprawling out on the couch or disappearing altogether, it seems this visitor is sitting on the couch, arms to his chest, and staring straight forward. His coat wrapped about his body, he stares blankly at the wall before him lost in a sea of thoughts.

The sound of her approach catches his attention however, his ears perking up curiously as he finally notices her arrival. Green pools of emerald in his eyes surrounded by the dark bags of a sleepless night tell her all she needs to know.  
"Trouble sleeping?"

A soft, tiny nod at the comment though he doesn't let his arms go. "Nightmares kept me up. Only slept an hour, maybe two."

"You look like it. Coffee?"

Moments later a cup of hot liquid is placed before the vagrant, the man taking it with a polite thank you and taking in a deep sip. Across from his couch on a chair, she observes her guest with the eyes of a detective, a trait learned from the GCPD and possibly Question himself. Although this man can't be much more than twenty-four, the distant look and wear and his face tells a different story. Much like a combat soldier in the field too long, he too looks as though life has aged him far more than most young adults in America.

"Aren't you going in today?" he asks, shaking her out of her thoughts for a second.

"Today's my day off. Even detectives need to rest, right?"

Sipping from his cup again, he suggests "That's true. Wish I could have one of those days off."

"You can take any day you want if you really wanted to. It's not as though you work from what I can tell."

Looking over at her, the frank expression on her Spanish face, his admission is blunt at best "No, I can't. Maybe before I left the West Coast but now it would just be an insult to those I've left behind."

"That's true but if you don't rest sometime, you'll eventually burn out and be good to no one."

Got him on that one but it wouldn't change things; things need to be done and only God can stop him by this point. "I'll have to finish my job then before I get to that point. In the meantime, maybe you can help me get the ball rolling."

"Just so you know, " Renee begins while setting her cup down on the table "I can't help you with anything illegal. I'm willing to help with Q's investigations sometime but I'm still an officer of the GCPD."

"Then who should I talk to find out about illegal activities around here?"

A finger to her lip, that's a bit of a large question given the large criminal element in the city. "For someone who's new to town, it wouldn't be a good idea to attract too much attention. If I were you, I'd pay a visit to a bar on 72nd Street in Lower East."

"Criminals?" Gar inquires, the destination sounding familiar to some old joints back in Jump.

A wry smirk fills her face as she warns him "Yeah, the trouble kind. They're not the mask-type but you should careful about their boss. He's… a bit on the strange side."

* * *

If the buildings by the docks weren't claustrophobic enough, seeing the poverty-stricken lines of buildings in Gotham's Lower East Side is just insufferable. Homes that have probably been around since the Civil War or earlier, several windows barred and boarded up, this side of the city just seems to scream "low-income". What's more interesting to the man from Jump is the vibe of this section of town between 70th and 75th streets. Lines of clothes stretching from building to building, kids in the street despite being a Friday, and the tell-tale signs tell that there's more than one bar around here. Not to mention all of the bars seem to host an Irish tone to them, ranging from "Mickey's" to "The Lucky Club".

The address given to him by Renee leads him to the centerpiece of this five-block madhouse: "The Mad Irish Pub", a bar most likely carved from an old house and adorned with a sign designating it so. Besides the sign reading "ONLY IRISH NEED APPLY", the sound of loud violins and guitars beckon him into the unknown like a dangerous siren of old Greek mythos. Unlike the other pubs in the area though, none of them seem to have the two unpleasant-looking fellas serving as bodyguards by the entrance. It could take some negotiation to get into this place.

"Hey, who do ya think you are, boy?" one asks in a thick Irish accent. "Care to tell us yer' name or you just another piece of pork tryin' to stir up the trouble in here?"

"The name's Logan, that's all you need to know. And no, I'm not a piggy in disguise." Gar replies, just as blunt as the doorman does on him.

"Well I can tell y'not from round here." The other speaks up with a deeper though still similar tone "You don't sound even Gotham. Where ya from, boy?"

"Belfast. I'm here to see when you stubborn Micks are gonna accept King and Country."

The first doorman's face seems to turn just as red as the sky above but it's the second man that cracks the first grin. "You got balls, boy. Take it yer' here to see the boss?"

"Depends. If he's as stubborn as you two bastards, I might just grab a pint and run. So, you gonna let me in and see just how kind the waitresses are here?"

Turning away from the door, he gestures to enter but not before warning. "Hey, better not tell that to the boys inside. Say somethin' smart like that in there, promise y'not see outside again in one piece. The boss ain't too much a fan of the English, for yer own sake."

* * *

"_What in God's name did I get myself into, walking into that bar like I was the baddest man in the world? Not that I couldn't handle a few people but for two in the afternoon, the pub was PACKED. I've never in my life seen so many taps of Guinness, Harp, kegs of Jameson, and fifths of Tullamore Dew in my entire life. Not that the large Irish flag along the wall wasn't impressive enough, the three-piece band jamming out fit that bill, but it really sealed the deal for me about not talking about England. Any man crazy enough to go this far into Hibernophilia would be someone you'd avoid talking about the English to._

_I didn't notice him at first, he was behind the bar like the other three keeps working the rounds. He was speaking just like the others: loud, dirty, and thickly Irish, perhaps more so than the rest. It wasn't until he made eye contact with me that the whole party stopped."_

"Ey! You wit' the stubborn eyes!" curses the man in question at the bar, throwing his arm out in accusation. Around him, the others stop and look to this new arrival while the band tones down their music. All at once, it seems nearly eighty sets of eyeballs have converged on Gar at once. "Who in Saint Pat do y'think y'bein' in here without a righteous and proper introducin'?"

Taken back a moment, the shocK of becoming the center of attention so suddenly, he can only blurt back "A thirsty alcoholic that's lookin' for a pint and good conversation."

Silence in the room by now, the band having shut up at the retort. The mood changes as the bartender hops over the wooden banister, taking a few steps up to Garfield. Then again, his slight 5'10 height and skinny frame isn't much compared to Gar's near 6'4 height and muscular build.

"Lookin' for a few words wit a'man, so? Might I be askin' thusly what it be you to be needin' from this here establishment and fine cadre of respectable gents?"

Looking over at the bar, he notices a familiar bottle of drink not seen since his final days in Jump. "For starters some of that fine drink in the Jameson bottle would do. I've come a long way just to say hello to these _respectable_ gentlemen." Leaning in close, he whispers to the shorter Irishman. "That and Montoya told me you'd be good at helping me with finding the man I'm looking for."

As the bouncer earlier had, so to does the man's face burst into a smile then further into a wide, manic grin. "Boy, I like yer' style, that I do! Come, we'll be needin' some ponies and a big bottle of the good stuff, won't we?"

"No offense but it's not even three o'clock yet."

Now leading the new arrival to the bar, the barkeep mutters only "As Mr. Jackson would quote, "It's five o'clock somewhere", right?"

* * *

Away from the customers, the kegs of beer and liquor, the two men find themselves going into a back room after a pair of whiskey shots. Unlike Gar, however, the barkeep doesn't even seem to appear flustered. Then again, Gar admits he's been out of practice in shots, much to his host's amusement.

As they arrive in the privacy of the back, however, the vibe changes entirely. A serious tone in his voice, the keep asks simply "What are ya truly here for, _Logan_?

"I told you I'm looking for someone, Mr...?"

"For the time bein', safety an' all, you to be callin' me Someone. Use that name sparingly if y'please, m'name's a bit of a curse all round this town."

"Fair enough. I'm here looking for an hired gun that goes by the name Deadshot." Gar begins, wishing he had his sunglasses at the moment to hide from the Irishman's tough gaze. Shorter than him or not, he still has the eyes of a predator eyeing a piece of fresh meat.

"Deadshot's yer' target, aye? Mighty brave a'ya goin' after one of that world's deadliest men outside of me'self." Moving to a desk in the back of the room, he opens a drawer and produces a bottle of Jameson. Unlike earlier though, he alone takes a drink from the bottle. "I take it yer' not lookin' for him to make peace, are ya?"

"I'm not as gung-ho about my nationality as you are, Irish, but I bleed green myself. Not too many of us like to make peace, do we?" Intense gaze or not, he won't be intimidated so easily. Gar too has seen some things and he's been that same predator many times prior himself.

The sly grin on his face speaks the truth enough, pouring a glass but not handing it over quite yet. "No that's not the business I choose to be makin' me living. Take it the good _detective_ hasn't filled ya in on me business, has she?"

That whiskey smells good but now's not the time for another shot, not when the last two haven't hit his brain just yet. "No and I asked her not to. Sometimes it's safer for everyone included _not_ to know what your contacts are dealing in."

The grin turning into a nod as well, he pushes over the drink. "Wise words for a'man barely old enough to trim a beard. Y'got the eye of a tough Mackie, y'know that?"

Taking the shot in hand, he replies solemnly "Didn't get that way by choice, did we Someone?"

Leaning back in the chair, Someone tells his guest "I'm not too keen as of late on what ol' Deadie's been up to. In me business, I to be only a middle man in a'much larger game a'supply and demand, y'understand me, Mackie?"

"Your name isn't cursed around the city though if you weren't a man who could get things done, right?" Gar offers, playing up the ego just a little bit.

"Flattery only earnin' ya points if yer honest, Mackie. I'll get ya to Deadie in exchange for two things an' only these two."

Arms folding behind his back, the iron glare of Garfield Logan comes down on the tough stare of the Irishman. "Shoot."

"As a'rule of mine, if you to be workin' with me in any venture, you need a thorough toastin' and soakin' if y'know what I mean." Raising the whiskey bottle, he warns "An'trust me, we're not in the business a'bein lightweights 'round here, aye?"

"Fair enough, a night of whiskey binging might be fun. And what's the other?"

Seriousness taking over from the mirth of the first request, Irish declares "You keep any'ting we do or say from Montoya, and that's a damn promise you to be keepin'. If me ears hear about me work or me mackies down at Police HQ, I'll be cuttin' your balls off one at'a time. Then, let ya bleed a'bit, I'll dump yer' ass down t'sewers and let an' old friend a'mine tear the flesh from y'bones. Am I to be makin' me self straight and honest?"

"Who says the Irish can't make peace? I can live with that."

Smile returning in force, Someone bolts from his chair and declares with arms wide open. "That's to be t'spirit, Mackie! Now, let's go an' have ourselves a'damn good time, aye?"

* * *

"_It might've been two in the afternoon when I went into the Mad Irish Pub but it felt like eleven when I left. That crazy, demented, "strange" Irishman paid my tab without any complaint. I would've been more surprised had I not stumbled my way out of the door and down the street, unaware I wasn't in Jump City but rather in a city that doesn't sleep. I was expecting to see a quiet, almost lifeless street when in fact it's the opposite of what I received. There were still people all over the place, mostly around the pub, and none of them looked pleased to see a stumbling drunk in a trench coat walk by, humming "Whiskey in the Jar"_

_I can only speak about this in reflection after I woke up in the morning, most of the night's events a distant memory. Thanks to months of "roughing it" as Raven would put it, I apparently managed to scrounge together a shelter of boxes and a tarp in an alley not far from the pub. I've been called the "Vagrant Vigilante" a few times by Question, that night I certainly earned it._

_That's not important though, not at this junction. What's important is I found my first contact in getting to that murdering bastard, even if it means working with a potentially psychotic Irishman who could potentially castrate me for thinking I'm English.  


* * *

_A/N2: Gar certainly could be a hobo if he wanted to, or even a wino for that matter. Still, if getting Irish cooperation involves getting shithammered with someone "strange", then that's what he's gonna do. So far I've heard that "A Titan in Gotham" story isn't the world's best; that's fair to say. It's been done before, right? Then again, most times they go to Gotham they improve or get stronger, motivated, right? Tell me, whoever said anything "good" was gonna happen to Gar? Last time I checked, nothing good has really happened to him in this story, has it (at least in the long run?)

Trivia:  
- Someone, the louder, drunker version of the author of this story. Also on "72nd Street", a reference to the number in me name.  
- Reference to Whiskey in the Jar by the Dubliners, muttered by Gar near the end.  
- Hibernophilia is the obsession with everything Irish.

A/N3: To any readers from Ireland or those formerly from, please excuse this dumb American's butchering of a good language from home and the awful sterotyping. We're not a race of drunks, criminals, and eccentrics but it seems to be what we're plenty damn good at doing. 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Back for chapter 3, the first action chapter in this series. I shouldn't say "action" but it does have some action near the end that will push the moral envelope a bit towards the black (which is where Gar definitely doesn't want to go). This further explores an aspect of Good vs. Evil that I've come to find fascinating in that people will do certain things, evil things, and then condemn another for doing something just a bit worse. You'll understand at the end of this chapter. Considering I wrote the last 1000 words on Pennsylvania's "Concord" sweet wine, it's surprisingly deep for me. That and I get to introduce a new character.

* * *

**Under a Blood Red Sky...**

"_This city, and by extension the people who live in it, seem to be missing some quality that the rest of the world seems to hold everyday. At first I thought it was the subtle mood differences from living under a red sky or being amongst buildings that seem to trap you. It wasn't until I watched the news one morning and saw the quality that made Gotham's residents so different than everyone else._

_Apparently a couple of local thugs attempted to pull of a bank heist under the guise of maintenance personnel. Everything was going alright until the silent alarm was tripped and the police were informed. In most other cities around the world, this would have brought about one of two responses:  
1) The police would surround the building and have to deal with a tense hostage situation.  
and  
2) In cities like Jump, Metropolis, and Gotham, superheroes and "masks" would arrive and break up the entire plan; saving the day and doing the hero thing._

…_  
What actually happened though was that another gang apparently blundered into the same bank, expecting to rob the same safe, and ran into the other during the heist. What happened was a violent shootout which claimed the lives of four of the criminals and three of the hostages inside._

_Now, in any other city, such a violent action would spark debate, controversy, as well as a public outcry to the government to mourn the dead. No, not in Gotham City, not where the sky seems to be filled with blood. Within a day, everyone except the victims' families had forgotten about the entire event; any mention of it being dismissed as a local "remember that?" and nothing more._

_Gotham City is a city unlike any other, that much is certain. In this city, it doesn't matter who you are, you're nothing more than collateral damage waiting to happen. When the funeral has passed, your name will be a memory etched into stone but into very few, if anybody's mind._

_

* * *

_

"_I hadn't heard from Someone in days, nearly two full weeks. I was getting anxious to say the least, especially in this city. Every day I waste is a day Deadshot could kill another innocent person, another day he could also use to escape this hellish town and out of my grasp. After I came so far, I couldn't let that happen._

_There was also another cause for my anxiety: My wallet was still empty and Montoya wouldn't enjoy me staying around forever. It would either be back to living in abandoned buildings and rooftops again or I'd have to go out and find a means to help pay her rent. Almost sounds like I'm married, huh? Just because she wasn't saying anything about it doesn't mean she wasn't thinking about it either._

_Then again, she's a mystery unto herself the more you look at her... Yesterday morning proved that."_

Beads of sweat rolling down his back, a shirtless Garfield Logan presses firmly with his hands, propelling his body upward in a series of pushups. Each exertion a strain on his body but he doesn't give so easily as his attention focuses more on the television playing him. The twelve noon news speaks to him through Gotham City News, its faded color revealing the days top stories so far. With no money to purchase a newspaper, it's the best he'll hope to achieve while he's still broke.

Up to his feet now, he practices a series of punches, kicks, and other stretches as he listens to a business update. Wayne Enterprises, apparently the biggest corporation in the city, has had a record boom in the year 2007 with the wars in the Middle East being the leading cause. As Gar throws a punch, he looks outside for a moment to look at the urban decay plaguing the city. If some of those billions of dollars earned went to public welfare and poverty, maybe Gotham City wouldn't be such a depressed city…

The back door opens suddenly, Gar's ears perking up subconscious as his elfin-like ones would outside of his disguise. Montoya enters with a handful of groceries in one hand and her keys in the other. Moving over to help, he notices something strange with this.

"Why did you enter the backdoor?" he asks, helping her with putting down the food on the table.

"Safety precaution, something about a potential plot against the GCPD's MCU. I personally think it's a joke."

"They're making you enter the rear? Like no one's going to ever look _behind_ your house to tell, right?" the sarcasm fits her own quite easily.

"I know, right?" Stopping, she points out "You've been working up a sweat in here, haven't you?"

Turning his head away, almost embarrassed, he offers "Sorry, didn't think you'd be home so soon. Normally I'd do it on the roof but it's pretty damn cold out there."

Putting the things away, she offers off-hand "Don't worry about it." Pausing a moment, she gestures towards the television. "A head's up for you: GCN isn't very reliable on finding out things about the city. If you want some decent information, I'd say shop around the grocery stores. They tend to have the less censored versions."

"Right…" Gar answers, looking towards the TV with a bit of surprise. Looking back, he notices she doesn't even give him a glance. In fact, she only seems to notice him when she sees him staring.

"What? You keep staring, it's not very nice."

"Sorry, nothing meant by it…" How to word this delicately… "Hey, can I ask you something?"

Closing a cabinet, she accepts "Go for it."

"I don't mean to sound egotistical or rude… It's just that back in Jump City, it seems… well."

"Spit it out, Gar."

Good motivation from the Latina Detective. "It seemed every woman back there looked at me like I was great looking or something. The crazy ones, the sane ones, even my own, former friends. But you seem to be…"

Stopping, she moves over to him and tells him straight. "I'll be honest, you're not bad looking for a guy your age. Unlike most of the slobs in this city, you actually take care of yourself and, despite how cold you can be, you seem like a genuinely nice guy. But you know how Question keeps secrets? Well, so do I, ok? We'll leave it at that." Smacking him on the shoulder with her palm, she tells him with a new sense of spirit "Now go and get yourself cleaned. Just because I let you stay here doesn't mean I like the smell of sweat all over the place. When you're done, you can earn your keep by doing the kitchen floor for me."

Yeah, married life indeed…

* * *

"_The day after my talk with Montoya, I got the message I was looking for. As part of a pre-arranged agreement with Someone, I would visit a local café everyday and see if his messenger would be there. That day, I finally saw the prick. This meant that there was news for me and possibly a location to find Deadshot at… Didn't quite expect what I got from him though."_

"Funny, I never imagined cloverleaves grew this far North." Gar tells the plain-clothed man at the table.

"Only when you get them early in the spring; summer's no good." He answers back, voice barely hinting at an Irish ancestry. "You the kid the boss told me about?"

"Called me Mackey, that's about all I can guess."

Out of his coat he pulls a small envelope, placing it before Gar. "He said you'd remember that. The instructions are in the envelope along with a time and location." Pulling his fedora down just a little bit to cover his eyes, he warns "If I were you, I'd leave town soon. You don't want to get involved in this, from one man to another."

Taking the envelope into his coat, he thanks the man for the advice before walking out.

"_The only thing the note inside said was to be at the Mad Irish Pub at a specific time and to make sure I looked as "ordinary" as possible. I should've realized what that meant but my curiosity, as ever, got the better of me."_

Outside the pub, three black suited men stand next to the side of an old, 30's era vehicle with big, round headlights and enough room for one more than four. Still, it's the men next to the car that draws Gar's attention, even more than the thought of how Gotham still has so many old vehicles.

"Hey, you the one the boss told me 'bout?" one points out, the leader of the group as the other two seem to turn their head after he speaks. This man certainly fits the mold of being "in charge", his stern features and ginger friendly mutton-chops seem more than just intimidating.

Handing him the note from the envelope, Gar agrees "Yeah, I'm him. Why you call me down here?"

Out of the lead's coat appears a M1911 handgun, black gunmetal and firmly held in his hand. "The boss still isn't convinced you're not a man of the badge. He'd like you to prove to me and the lads that you're one of us."

Hands rising up, nodding to his coat to check, Gar offers "Take a look for yourselves. I haven't a gun, a badge, or anything else useful in defending myself."

"If I were worried about you pulling a gun on me, I'd have one of the boys frisk you now wouldn't I?" this man offers back in seriousness. "For the time being, I'll need to trust you whether the boss does or not, understand?"

"Yes I do." Gar answers, offering simply "Do you fellas have names then? I'd hate to keep calling you guys Micks."

"The lads call me Fermanagh, "Mad" Michael Fermanagh. McCrery and Shaun will be accompanying us to the target but they'll be acting backup to me and you, understand? If you want to do business with the boss, you better make sure you impress me, got it?"

No more of the mirth he shared with Montoya, only the stark reality of working with a dangerous criminal organization, miles from home. "Got it."

* * *

In the car, Fermanagh and Gar sit in the back while the other two pay attention to the road.

"The job involves a firm hand and a cold heart, understand me boy? Boss says you can handle the juice fine but he expects a stronger tolerance for the colder things in life, got it boy?"

Not looking over at the buzzed cut Irishman, Gar answers slightly annoyed "Understood and you can cut out the "boy" shit. My name's Logan, not "boy"."

"I to be callin' you what I want until you prove yourself worthy of a name around me, got that _boy?_" Fermanagh retorts, an eye twitching slightly at the backtalk.

"For your own sake, it to be wise not to get him stirred up." One of the two up front advises though daring not to turn their head back towards them. "We don't call him "Mad" because it sounds cute."

"Shut your gob McCrery and make sure Shaun doesn't crash us into a fireplug." Looking away from Gar, the fiery Irishman remarks "It's so hard to find decent work in this city, even if they do come from the old country."

"That where you're from? Ireland I take it?" Gar asks, serious but also curious about the man he'll be depending on to give Someone a good review to.

"Northern Ireland, boy, that's where I'm from. Used to play ball for Ulster Rugby team back in Belfast. Had a reputation for punting other team's heads more than me reputation for punting balls in the back of the net. A couple fights later and some felonies, I was "relocated" to America. All history after that."

"Rugby, huh? Can't say I know much about the sport other than it's a real vicious sport."

Green eyes looking at the man to his side, Fermanagh warns with a cold tone in his voice "If you think Rugby be vicious, boy, spend some time with us and you'll see some real hardcore shit."

* * *

Outside of what appears to be a normal gambling shop, the quartet of men prepares themselves for what's to come. Only one of the carload remains in the dark about the job's details.

"So, what's going on here?" Gar asks, nervous as Fermanagh shoves a pistol and a black ski mask into his hands.

"The boss's been havin' some trouble with a rival gang in the city for the past few weeks. Their leader thinks he can bypass good, Irish labor by going to another supplier of goods." Pulling back his M1911, Fermanagh asks simply "That wouldn't be very polite to a reputable dealership, now would it?"

Masks and guns ready, they depart the car on Fermanagh's order and storm the joint with evil intent.

Inside, the bookies are busy running their bets while customers place deals on everything from horse races to underground hobo fights filmed with simple camcorders. It's a surprise therefore when four black-suited men, armed with weapons and attitudes to match, storm the building and start demanding compliance and a quick visit to the floor.

"This isn't a drill in case you people are wonderin' what the fuck is goin' on!" McCrery shouts, aiming his Thompson "Tommy" Gun at any would-be heroes.

Over to the betting window, Fermanagh grabs the man by the neck and tells him with his gun to his face "Make a man smile and get me some cash. Reach for the alarm and I'll have my friend here put a pair of rounds through your wrinkly head."

Looking to his side, Fermanagh can see Gar warning the other teller to comply, demanding money and not to trigger the alarm. Shaun and McCrery have the betters down on their knees, also going along with the robbery.

"Open the fucking door, old man, or I'll render you null and void!"

…

As this goes down, Gar takes a second to look around the room at all of the scared faces on the people. Not many are used to having guns in their face, much less their lives threatened over a few thousand dollars that they'll never even see in their lives. The sight even takes him back further, to the sight of a liquor store clerk cowering in fear as he threatened his life for a measly case of beer. Another test from the criminal element to prove his "worthiness" of their help, it's enough to make him sick.

Suddenly, one of the hostages takes an opportunity to punch Shaun in the face, giving him a chance to escape. His dashes madly for the door, hoping to get to freedom and possibly…

"Boy, shoot him!" Fermanagh orders angrily, pissed that his own man would let a civilian get away.

Turning, Gar aims the gun at the fleeing man, unwilling to pull the trigger until…. It happens… His eyesight turns green, the room seems to slow down and the man's escape seems as though he's held down to a crawl… His breathing becomes easy, one breath at a time, until he lowers the gun at the man's leg rather than his head. A single shot of lead is all it takes to tear through the man's right calf. His eyesight returns as the man pancakes to the ground, panicked at the sight and feeling of a gunshot through his lower leg.

"Good shot, boy. Get the money while I take care of this coward." Fermanagh orders, moving towards the downed victim.

As Gar starts to receive the cash from the two employees, a single pistol shot is heard with a series of quick screams to follow. Hands full of cash bags, Gar turns around to see the bloody mess of what was the victim he had neutralized a minute prior. Now lies the lifeless corpse of a man with a fresh bullet wound to the head, eyes staring blankly at Gar though never seeing another living thing again… it's enough to get his hands trembling as Fermanagh orders a retreat, saying the message has been delivered and it's time to get away.

* * *

"That was impressive accuracy back there, boy. I must say I didn't expect such a solid shot from a man barely old enough to shave." Fermanagh tells his guest as the car speeds down the streets of Gotham, heading back to the pub no doubt.

"You killed him… why did you kill him?" Gar asks, voice wavering slightly at the memory in his mind.

"Why? The fool didn't learn to obey orders when given. Had he not moved, had he not attacked one of my own countrymen…" he emphasizes with a slap to Shaun's head "he would be alive as we speak."

"So that's how you justify murder? By saying that defending himself warranted an _execution?_"

A silence fills the car as "Mad" looks over the man next to him, considering his options before asking bluntly "Are you mad? Hmm? Are you pissed off enough to try and hurt me? I wouldn't blame you if it were your first time killing someone. But I can tell from the look in your eyes it isn't your first time seeing death. It's not an easy thing to end someone's life, the first time, but once you've grown used to seeing death, you come to appreciate just how fragile life is."

Gar's about to offer a retort when the elder Irishman offers him one bit of advice.

"In this life, you need to react quickly to danger and understand what needs to be done. Had that man not tried to be a coward, had he not tried to escape when compliance would save him, he'd still be alive. Had we not entered this damnable way of making money, we too would also be safe but we have not. In this line of work, it is only to kill or be killed and to be damned with anyone who dares play hero. If you should find yourself angry with me, so be it, I will not complain. But know that I will not shed a tear for a man who tries to be a hero nor one who will not see what needs to be done when the time comes. You shot that man with as clear a focus as any soldier I'd ever seen back in Belfast and yet you feel this need to offer morality? Logan, if you intend to see your goal out through the end, you must understand that completing that goal will not come without cost, nor will it come without sacrifice. Learn to live with it, embrace what little good it offers, and shed no tears for cowards and fools. If you won't, you will surely end up dead."

"_Later when we arrived back at the Mad Irish Pub, Someone was waiting for us with a smile a used car salesman would appreciate. Despite Fermanagh's blunt view on life, it did have me thinking to all the things I've done before. As I've come to realize since my leaving the Titans, I'm no longer a hero, I'm just a man trying to accomplish a goal. Whether or not I choose to kill willingly is my own decision but playing by simple "morality" is no longer going to cut it… If my dream during my surgeries were true, promising Death I would do what is necessary, then I will need to take his words seriously and steel my heart for the days to come. I can't afford to die before I finish my goal or this entire life will have been for nothing…"_

_

* * *

_A/N2: That's a wrap. Gar didn't kill the man but without his help, Fermanagh wouldn't have been able to kill him outright. While this will surely be the focal point for reviews, a deeper mystery will be "which gang decided to back out on the Irish?". Ah, made you think, didn't I? That's to come in the coming chapters, in the meantime this wine's going down very smooth. Also of note is Montoya and how she's the first in this whole series _not_ to find Gar sexually attractive (comics fans will know why).

Trivia:  
- "Mad" Michael Fermanagh is based on a character I made in WWE Smackdown vs. Raw 2006 (and later 2011). He's named (by accident until this night) after County Fermanagh in Norther Ireland.  
- Ulster Rugby team is a legit Rugby team based in Northern Ireland, put of the 4-team Irish Rugby Football Union.  
- McCrery is a nod to GTA4 and it's Irish characters.

Rhetorical: Gar seems to be manifesting his strange powers again but will he be able to control it before it gets him into far deeper trouble? Then again, he just helped in a robbery AND assault with a deadly weapon because of it..._  
_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Part 4 of this story's Act 01 and Gar's troubles (ironic term given the Irish) continue. Another comics reference to Montoya if you can spot it (those who don't know her history, take a look through DC Wikia for more hints). Gar's becoming an alcoholic I think, especially considering his history and the company he keeps. Unlike that last draft (and most of my series so far), this story is much more a character exploration than straight-out action. He's grown to such a point in so short a time that, while he's physically and intellectually there, emotionally and mentally he's still in need of catch-up.

* * *

**Under a Blood Red Sky...**

"… _Even though I've been living with the reality of being an accomplice to murder, I'm not sure if I'll ever truly get over it. I suppose my mind was trying to justify it or maybe even trying to find an excuse out of what I've done. But there's no escaping truth, it is what it is, and the truth is I've been the cause for several deaths since 2007 and there's nothing more I can do about it. I just hope what I heard from Death was true that morality is a human complex, not a cosmic one… otherwise I'm truly fucked, no question about it…_

_Not that I just picked up and went on like business as usual… No, I did something that would only make me feel worse: I lifted a bottle of Jameson from Someone's pub to help ease the memory. He wouldn't miss it, he had more than a hundred bottles alone in the basement and he'd assume he drank it. No, this bottle was reserved for another person, one whom I owed some serious explanations to about who I was and why I was out here."  


* * *

_When Montoya arrives home from the department, the first sign of something being wrong is the lack of television, the smell of cooking beans, or the sound of exercise coming from the living room. Setting her keys on the table, she walks to the opening to the living room and looks with cautious alarm, noticing the figure sitting on the couch. Before his hunching form is a tall bottle of liquor, two glasses, and the sound of Bob Dylan's "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" on her CD player.

"Gar?" she asks, unsure what's going on. This isn't like the man she's come to live with over the past month.

Looking towards her, he offers "Hey, sorry about the music. I was in the mood for some music and you happen to have a good taste in classics."

"It was a gift from one of the detectives in MCU. Where did you get the Jameson from?"

Opening the lid for the first time, he offers simply "From a strange Irishman who won't be missing it."

A moment's pause, she finally accepts, sensing a deeper motive behind this change in behavior. "A strange Irishman, huh? You've been talking to Someone lately, haven't you?"

Pouring the brown liquor into both of their glasses, he admits bitterly "Haven't had much conversation with him; more like aggravation."

Taking the glass, she takes a small smell of the liquor, remarking "Never had this before. I'm more of a Tequila woman, myself."

"Playing stereotype, aren't you?" The opportunity for a joke is passed over as he remarks sadly "Aren't we both?"

Looking more serious now, she sets the drink down before taking a sip. "Ok, what's the matter? You're being depressive, even for this city."

A moment's hesitation and a brief sigh, Gar informs her "Stereotype, remember? What's one thing about the Irish everybody knows?"

"Usually considered to be a bunch of drunks, fighters… religious."

"Beyond just that, what's one of their favorite colors?"

Strange questions indeed. "Green, right?"

Taking off his ring, revealing his very real Beast self, he answers back frankly "Yup, that's right. A bit stereotyped, aren't I?" As her eyes widen at the man in her room, he remarks with a wry sense of humor "Funny, I'm not even sure if I'm Irish. They said "Logan" was an Irish name but…"

"Gar, _you're_ the one that's missing out in Jump City!" Montoya remarks, stunned by this development. "You've been missing for months, no one's been able to find you."

That smile growing wider, Gar is pressed to admit "Because they're looking for a green-skinned man who can change into animals, not one who can electronically disguise himself and tries not to change forms in plain sight." Holding up his glass, he takes a long gulp of the Irish drink.

"So… this is why you've been missing. You've been in Gotham almost the entire time while everybody's looking for you out West." Lifting the drink, she almost has the urge to bemoan her own bad luck "I think I'll make this a double."

* * *

"So that's the reason you came here; to get away from the troubles out West." A few drinks and a delivered box of pizza later, the two adults continue on their discussion of his past. "I have to admit, it's pretty ambitious."

"Finding a way to escape the hospital wasn't as hard as finding a ship out at sea who could get me here." Lying to his only "friend" feels pretty dirty but with dealing with a woman so close to the Batman… "Even then, I had to make it look like I disappeared so no one would just guess I went into hiding back in North Jump."

"Sooner or later people will forget you were ever around though. It would be the same if Batman stopped fighting crime around Gotham; the criminals would just get bolder."

Another round of the liquor in hand, he muses "Sometimes I wish _I_ could forget about me and just fade into a normal life. It would be much nicer, not to mention safer on the body…"

Finishing a bite of pizza, she counters "Yes but then you wouldn't be a hero; you'd just be a regular person again. All the kinds of crime you tried to stop would only get stronger."

The drink, his fifth in less than ninety minutes, goes down bitterly and with pure intent in mind. "I'm not a hero… I haven't been in a long time." Looking to the woman beside him, the sadness in his eyes is there as obvious as the sun on a clear day. "Renee, I've killed people doing this and I don't mean by accidents. I killed a few thugs trying to shoot me back in Jump; got them with a booby-trapped explosive… And I… I…"

The seriousness on her own face, she waits on her own drink, taking in the look in his distant eyes. Like a child in the middle of the road with no parent to lead him on, a man lost in a sea of morality without a lifeline to lead him onto the safety of a boat. Of course, this isn't the first time she's had to deal with this situation, not by a long shot.

"If you killed them in self-defense, to save your life, then there's nothing you could've done. I've seen it happen before in a hundred cases across the city. It's the people who take life willingly, with no remorse or even joy; they're the ones that will burn in Hell when this life's over. You might not consider yourself a hero but no one's perfect all the time. Even the Justice League can't save everyone, every time… What's important though is you keep your focus and NOT become like Joker or other psychopaths like him. You have a lot of courage, Gar, so don't give up on yourself, not now when you have so much to offer."

"Offer? What makes you think that?" strange hearing such honest words from a woman that, technically, should arrest him for vigilantism.

"If you're not really a "superhero" or a "mask", then you're just a man. A man who's trying to make things better without all the showboating and celebrity status the rest of those "heroes" craves. You're offering your abilities to society, to try and make their lives safer, and you're doing it without even asking for more than a hot meal and a couch."

That last comment elicits a genuine, honest chuckle. How very true if only he'd be allowed an extra pillow instead of the usual cushion.

"Now," she tells him, picking up the plates, wobbling a bit as she gets to her feet "enough of this depressing discussion. Put that ring back on too in case someone's been spying on us, can't have the Watchman being spotted in Gotham."

"Nope, can't have that now can we?"

"No. By the way, since you've been kind enough to get the liquor, I won't demand that you do the dishes." Before he can thank her, she retorts honestly "Then again, I _did_ have to buy the pizza. How about you clean up the mess in here instead?"

"There's always a catch to this, isn't there?"

* * *

"_The next morning, as per Someone's request, I again ventured to the coffee shop at the appointed hour. Sure enough, his contact was there, waiting for me as he had the first time. In a way, I was kind of hoping I wouldn't see him, not after that last fiasco. Tracking down Deadshot shouldn't require a man's soul, should it? Sure enough, as before, Fermanagh and his men were waiting for me. Unlike our last engagement, none of them had a weapon in hand, just that knowing look when they saw me cross the street…"_

"Well, seems you decided to come back; that's good to see." "Mad" offers the new entry into the group. "I wasn't sure if you'd be comin' back for Round 2 after our last little job."

"I came because I need Someone's help, that's the only reason. So, is he willing to help me find him or is he just testing me _again_?"

"You shouldn't be so arrogant about hospitality, it's bad luck." McCrery warns, the gleam in his eyes turning towards a darker frown on his lips. "Still not sure if you're badged up under that coat."

Fermanagh offers a hand to silence the younger criminal, suggesting "While I still have doubts of me own, I'm willin' to see it through once again. With luck yer' not needin' to shoot anyone this time; should be right up your alley."

What's there to do but follow through, right? "What's the job?"

"Shaun, take us to the place. I'll be explain' on the way." The lead Irishman declares as he steps off the hood and around the front.

* * *

"Remember that bookies you so gallantly helped topple the other eve?" Fermanagh asks, checking his pistol in the car.

"How could I forget?" the solemn answer comes back, Gar content to stay in their graces for now.

"How lucky are we to have been to have heisted a front business for one of our dear, former client?"

Something about the way he speaks those words sends a shiver up Gar's spine, even down to the way "Mad" pulls back the barrel, snapping it back with a hard click. Still, it's message is clear, even to nervous ears. "We're going after another one of his operations then?"

"No, another jab at his cash would just be a waste of time. Just like boxing, you need to change up your punches or you'll became plain, understand me, boy?" Swiping with his hands, to and fro, he tells him "Go for the cash, go for the supplies, then back to the cash, understand? Just like hittin' a man in his stomach then puttin' a fist to his face."

"We're going after a shipment of guns." Shaun speaks out finally, assuming Gar doesn't get the point.

A fast smack to the back of the head from Fermanagh silences any further talk from the younger Mick. "How are we to be teachin' the kid a thing a'two about this business if you're to be givin' up the goose before the egg is'atched!"

"I figured you'd be going after his supply of guns… only thing I'd like to know is from _who_?" Gar asks, having realized what "Mad" meant at the first description of boxing. That and gun runners going after a _supply_…

"You'll understand soon enough. Just make sure you're willin' to do more than injure with that gun, boy."

Gar takes a look outside, noticing the sun's still high in the sky but two hours from now, the city will be bathed in darkness once again. "Hey, not to sound too paranoid or jinx this plan but…"

"Spit it out, boy." McCrery speaks from the front.

"What happens if… the Bat shows up?"

The three Irishman share a hearty laugh at the honest question and probably a bit harder at Gar's expense. "Rule a'thumb in this city is to always do your most business after a Joker attack. That Bat and he got a bit a rivalry and he'll not pass up a chance to chase down his better half."

"In other words, you're not going to see him tonight." Shaun remarks before taking another hit to the head for stealing Fermanagh's next line.

* * *

"_Turns out we didn't have to go to a location after all. In fact, it seems Fermanagh had sources trailing the target because when we got there, we weren't at a warehouse; we were at a traffic intersection… The drill was the same as last time: Mask, pistol, and a lot of intensity if we were going to get what we wanted. So when the time came and the car parked in front of the off-white moving van, cutting off traffic, I realized what he wanted from me._

"_Go fetch, boy." Was all he told me and instinct took over from there._

_Only one driver, no passengers and certainly no armed goons. Just a man at his wheel with a stunned look on his face and the usual surprise at being hijacked. Question had taught me well, or so Renee would say, as I was out of the car, pulled out the driver, and into the driver's seat in no less than nine seconds. Everything had worked perfectly until "Mad" threw me a cell phone._

"_What's this for?" I shouted at him, not caring about the honking horns all around us.  
"Follow us. When we get there, call the number and run like a mad man!" then he got back into the car and took off, my van following behind._

_And damn was it hard driving again, the first time since Q let me drive his car back in Hub City in 2007. At least then the roads didn't have snow on them, the streets were wider, and I didn't have God knows what in the back. Still, it was just like the thousands of hours playing video games back at Titans Tower: Stay in the lanes, don't speed, gas and brake when needed… Still gave me the shakes though, I can admit that._

_Didn't take long to get to our destination, that's for sure. Fermanagh and his men pulled over while I waited for traffic to move along. "Mad" got out of the car, came over, and told me something I'll never forget._

"_Hey boy, you want to know why they sent me packin' from me homeland?"_

_Who knew when that light was going to change and my nerves were already plenty high. "Why?"_

_He offered me a smile, the kind you normally see one people who've seen too many bad things in their lives… The kind that you know whatever good used to be in their heart had died only to be replaced with something akin to ice. "It's the same reason I'm called "Mad" Michael Fermanagh, because I'm stark ravin' mad enough to demolish anything in my way."_

_Turning green, no time for questions, I asked simply "Where do I park this?"_

_He held onto the van a bit longer to tell me "Pull up into the garage, they're expecting you. Make up a shit lie and get yer ass movin', quick step!"_

…

_I did what he asked, God forgive me for what happened next._

…

_The men inside were expecting the van and whatever they thought they were receiving. I pulled up as they asked, got out, and looked at my cell phone. "Shit, the damn wife's calling again. You guys give me a minute, I gotta make this call."_

…_. They never knew what hit them._

_Once I got outside of that little warehouse, I called the number Fermanagh told me to. Ten seconds later, I felt myself thrown onto the hard asphalt by a large explosion, the heat giving me a bad case of sunburn on my neck. For a moment, the only thing I could hear was a loud ringing sound along with the muffled shouting of pedestrians and fleeing drivers. Before I could gather my senses, I could see McCrery and Shaun coming over to help pick me up, babbling something about "Hey mister, you ok?" just to further the act…_

_Dear God, what have I done?

* * *

_

Back at the pub, the carload of men exit to the sight of their waiting boss. His smile, ever firmly on his face, dims at the sight of Gar exiting the vehicle, still holding his neck from the burn.

"What t'happened? Mackie, yer neck's all burnt and…"

"Bastard didn't tell me it would go off that soon, got caught in the explosion." Gar bitterly remarks though more from the pain than anger at Fermanagh.

"Yeah that to be my fault, boss. Didn't realize the boy's not used to trucks that go "boom."

"Not used to driving trucks full of Ammonium Nitrate, especially not one full to the gills." Gar laments, eyeing the Irish gangster to his left. "I get it why they call you "Mad." You're absolutely crazy."

To some it might be a statement, to the ex-Rugby player it means fighting words. "You got somethin' worth sayin', boy, you make sure you say it clear as crystal."

Any reply by Gar is cut off by Someone snapping his fingers and pointing at both "Oy, none of this balls'n'all, bigger dick facin' off! What happened be a result a'bad business practice by a'man who for sure now understand the cost a'refusin' business wit' people a'good reputation."

If not for the pain growing in his neck, Gar might've actually broken into a confused laugh at the long-winded Irish-laced lingo. "Right. So, where do we go from here?"

Another snap of the fingers, Someone gestures to Gar "You t'be comin' inside so t'boys can get an eye on that burn on yer neck. We sure ain't ver'wise on medical but we got quite a'few ladies 'round the neighborhood that know a'trick to cure y'ailments."

"Something tells me liquor's involved?" Gar surmises, especially seeing that smirk reappear on Someone's face.

"Al'ways t'good stuff, me Mackie, al'ways!"

* * *

"_By ten, I had enough home remedies and shots of Tullamore Dew in me to make any pain I might've been feeling vanish for the night. I was more surprised to find myself climbing the narrow, creaky stairs of the Mad Irish Pub, looking for the room Someone assigned me. Apparently even he didn't feel "comfortable" about me walking home drunk again, despite letting me do so on our first night of drinking._

_The general sense of age in the building wasn't helped by the fact that a stormfront had moved into the area, a rare sight considering it was February in the Northeast. A hard, driving rain with the occasional thunderstorm just to make the noise in the already-thunderous building that much more noisy. _

_As I turned onto the third floor, I was surprised how dark it got… and just why exactly somebody had left the hallway window open at the end. The rain would certainly get inside but my drunken mind didn't really give a damn; I was just glad to have a bed to fall onto. But as I reached the doorway to my given room, something in the corner of my eye spotted something in the lightning's flash. For a brief second, I saw the outline of a figure entirely shrouded in black, black as the night itself. And two eyes… two pierces, white eyes that glared into my very soul. And as quick as it came, it disappeared with the lightning flash, not there after the second flash illuminated the hallway._

…

_And despite my drunken state, a very sober feeling started to creep through my body… even as my hand began to tremble as I held the old, gray doorknob."

* * *

_A/N2: The tension digs ever deeper, some interesting things are developing (and that job was improvised, not the original idea). Gar technically didn't lie to Renee, only "omitted certain details", both in his escape from Jump City and what he did at the bookies. I'm not too sure the Irish still trust Gar but they sure don't mind having him kill people to suit their interests... Problem is Gar's about to deal with the man he's been inadvertantly fucking with because of said Irish... and who was that fear-inspiring visage we saw at the end of the chapter? Hehee, nerd moment I know (but it should be obvious).

Rhetorical:  
My previous readers will probably know who he's about to face next (but the question is how will he get out of it?)


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Is there drama in this chapter? Oh yeah, there's lots of that. For my long-time readers, consider what you write after you read this BEFORE you write. If Gar's conversation with (you'll know who) isn't what you thought it'd be from Draft One, deal with it. While it may seem much isn't going on in this chapter, far more is going on than you realize. As I'm writing this Redux 2 much more character and plot heavy (more than action heavy), it pays to keep a keen eye on everything...

* * *

**Under a Blood Red Sky...**

"_By the time St. Patty's came around, it was getting harder and harder to tell just how long I had been living in Gotham. I knew I came to the city sometime around New Year's, that much could be proven by shipping records, but it felt like years rather than months. It certainly didn't help that I found myself drunk two to three times a week; a combination of my own devices and those damn Irish._

_Speaking of those wretched people, the "jobs" they assigned me weren't much better. Very few of them included working with Fermanagh and that suited me just fine. Someone was bad enough, getting me drunk all the time "on his expense" but Fermanagh just seemed like a loose cannon, ready to explode at any minute. People like that can make or break an operation… or an undercover reputation like the one I was establishing._

_Since Deadshot was proving a hard person to find, or so he told me, they gave me odd jobs which meant I could earn some money (and help pay for the bills in Montoya's apartment). In fact, the things I got assigned were things I specialized in back in Jump City. I mugged Caribbean drug peddlers, helped deliver "this and that" across the city, and even acted as muscle when some would-be patrons started hitting on the local women. Not that they needed it, Irish women are as tough as they come, but Someone likes to make sure people get a message: DON'T fuck with his neighborhood's women._

_As for Montoya, she very rarely asked me about how I brought home the cash to pay for her bills. Did she know? I'm not too sure, it's hard to understand sometimes. As a police detective she must've known but could I ever be sure? When I wasn't working for the Irish, I would occasionally offer my services to help the department find local undesirables. Mainly drug dealers, smugglers, and other low-level thieves (the high-profile ones were Batman's domain)…_

_My run of good luck in Gotham, however, had run out on St. Patty's night however…"

* * *

_

The lights of the room Gar finds himself in are very few, one, two if the glow behind him was any indication. Dark, black walls surrounded him though as the hazy effects of the night's drinking fades away. Like a jackhammer to his temple, the headache rises up like a storm, his eyebrows wincing at the pain.

"Where…?" Struggling to get up, he's amazed to find himself tied to a chair, his skin color still in disguise form but a few cuts and bruises line the flesh.

..

"Bout time you woke up…" the low, growly voice of a man unseen speaks into the room. Eyes snapping towards a bright light, the sight of a door opening with a man shadowed in black fills the young man's eyes. As soon as it comes, the door closes and the man approaches, the sound of a metal piece pinging every so often. "You have a lot to answer for, boy."

"Who… Fermanagh, is that you?" Gar asks, recognizing his unwanted nickname but still unsure if this is the place to be.

Out of the darkness, a burnt hand grasps Gar by the chin, forcing him to look up. In his eyes, he comes face to face with a man who's face is more fitting for a horror poster than a man's. In fact, you could make that poster a double header as there's two sides to go around. "Do I _look_ like your Irish friend?"

And just as he had on that fateful night in the hallway, Gar feels a very real chill run up his spine. The man might not be personally known to him but only a daisy-fresh "mask" superhero wouldn't know who this man is… and what he's capable of… "Two… two face?"

Still forcibly holding the boy by the chin, the snarling baritone snaps back in malice "No, I'm the fucking tooth fairy you little shit!" Releasing him with a push, the criminal mastermind rises to his impressive height, the coin being flipped back into action.

"How did you…?"

With one eye narrowed, the other never able to narrow again, he reminds Garfield "In this city, nothing happens without _my_ approval. Did you _really_ think I wouldn't notice your friends trying to squeeze my suppliers, hmm? Did you _think_ I wouldn't care if you decided to blow up one of my businesses with a truck bomb?" Full of evil intent, the former District Attorney warns his captive "Because if you've have, you're fatally mistaken."

* * *

The bar seems rather empty this time of day, considering there's only four or five patrons compared to the normal all-hours madhouse. For Detective Montoya, this very fact is a blessing to be sure. It'll be far more easier having to deal with Someone amongst a small gathering rather than a large crowd.

Still, their eyes follow her with all the intensity of a lion watching a fellow predator, getting within their "allowable" comfort zone before attacking. A badge isn't needed to tell this woman isn't one of them, much less here for "good times and good drink".

"Can I help ya, Ms.?" The tender asks, polite but still on edge himself.

"Where's the boss?" she asks, pure business in her tone. "And before you say "who", I'm talking about Someone we all know."

"Might I see your credentials?"

"How long have you been working here?" she asks, reaching into her coat for her ID but never taking her eyes off his own. "Can't be long if you don't recognize who _I_ am."

"Long enough to know some people aren't to be trusted." His response is just as icy as hers as he inspects the ID declaring her to be a Gotham Police Detective. "And the boss is in his office. I'll…"

She'll suffer none of that, already moving away from the bar against his protests. Not even bothering to knock on the door, she enters to see his smug, knowing smile plastered on his face.

"You can wipe off that fucking smile off your face, Someone. You have some answers for me and I'm NOT in the mood for your Irish shit."  
Still smiling however, he speads his arms out, elbows on the seat's armrests "Supposin' I do, don't I?"

* * *

"You got a name, boy?" Two Face asks, moving about the room as he flips his coin.

"The Irish call me "Logan." That should work for the two of us."

"Ohh, is that so?" the hoarse, slow drawl of the supervillain snakes through the room. "Logan being your _first_ or _last_ name?"

Pausing a moment, trying to make out some detail of his captor's face despite the low light and morning-after buzz, he points out "We're both men with two names. How about I stick to Two Face if you stay with Logan?"

PING, the coin flips skyward, landing gently in his palm with the unscratched side looking up. "Fair enough…" another flip of the coin, another question for the man with two identities. "So, what's the deal with the Irish? Are you trying to become one of them?"

"No. I do odd jobs for them, they help me find someone I'm looking for."

Moving about the room, not too much different than an attorney in court, he surmises "Someone of importance, hmm? Someone who isn't likely to be found by any _common_ means?"

For brief moments, Gar can make out the details of his burns in the light… but most of the time Two Face remains out of reach of the dim bulbs on the ceiling. "He's the kind of person I'd look for if I happened to wear a mask and jump off rooftops."

…

"You're lying." Two Face remarks, stopping to match eyes to eye with his gaze. "We can see it in your face, _Logan_. The way you brought up masks, the way you mention jumping off rooftops…"

If Gar's still afraid for his life, it's steadily shrinking along with his patience. Trapped or not, he still has to listen to this asshole. "Given how many superheroes and super criminals there are these days, I thought the term might make you smile."

A sharp, stinging backhand from the burnt half of Two Face's body has Gar reeling, spitting up a few drops of blood, chasing away the last vestiges of his intoxication. "Be careful what you say, boy. Speak out of line and we won't need a coin to kill you…"

Gar, perhaps out of insanity or deeper insight, actually eggs on his captive "Now _I_ can tell _you're_ lying from your face. The way it just twitched when you lied about not using your coin, that fake assertion that your coin doesn't control you…"

Quick as a cat, Two Face brings one of his two pistols to bear, the cold steel resting a mere inch away from the young man's head. "You don't think we would?"

"Not without flipping your coin once, no."

"You think we _need_ that coin? Do you?"

Matching Two Face's rage-filled eyes with a stare of determination, Gar dares him "Let's find out. Pull the trigger. Kill me."

The hammer pulling back, the bullet will kill Gar before his brain even registers the pain of the impact…

But the older villain simply offers an impressed, though begrudging smirk at the man's stunt. "Do you know what you look like right now?"

"Tell me?"

Pulling the gun back, he replies simply "Like a wild dog who's not afraid to be put down."

"Maybe because this wild dog's seen a few things he'd like to forget. Dying's far better than living sometimes, isn't it _Two Face_?"

…

Turning on his heel, the man in black and white leaves for the door, warning "We're not done with you yet. We'll be back to finish this in the morning. Don't try anything stupid or the Two Ton Gang might make you regret trying to play psychologist with me…"

* * *

Later in the night, Montoya stands atop of the GCPD's headquarters, wrapped in her police-issue coat, staring at the vigil in the sky. Beside her, the glowing emblem of Gotham's Dark Knight is abuzz, a message to the protector of this city… or maybe it's most insane resident of all.

"Detective." the voice takes her off guard a bit, not expecting him to sneak up on her suddenly.

"It's you… Damn, you nearly scared me to death there." Recovering from the shock, she tells him "My roomate's been missing since last night. Normally he lets me know if he's busy or if he'll be late but…"

"He's gone missing and Someone isn't sure where he is either." Sure of himself, as always, and right to the heart of the matter.

"Yes, how did you know?" How could he know he's been talking to the Irish or…

"I've been hearing about a new hired gun for Someone's gang. I've been keeping tabs on him for a few weeks now." Leaning in, he tells Renee bluntly "And I know where's he's been staying when he isn't too drunk to walk home."

"Keeping my apartment under surveillance? You know, just because you're a mask, doesn't give you the right to spy on people. How would _you_ like it if the GCPD staked out _your_ home?"

The look on his face, that iron glare, the look that something just isn't right in his head… it's enough to make her quick flash of bravado fade away. Damn, he's good at intimidation. And yet, as soon as he leans in, he pulls back, turning around and aiming a grapple gun towards the nearest building. "You should know that he's made enemies with some major players around Gotham. He's probably not aware of it, if he's still alive. Then again, he has… special abilities, doesn't he?"

Renee's expression turns to surprise, asking of the man in black. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Lowering his hand a moment, he replies "Nothing he'd like me to repeat. We all have secrets we'd like to keep hidden, wouldn't we Detective Montoya?" With that, he fires his grapple and disappears into the Gotham night. Behind him, a nervous Montoya is left with his haunting words… not just about Gar but about the possibility that Batman knows about…

* * *

Morning on the 19th of March, Gar's awakened to the hard impact of a slap by Two Face. Looking up, groggy, he complains more to piss Two Face off than to relieve himself. "My back feels like it locked up over the night. Care to untie me so I can stretch?"

"Plenty of time to stretch when you're dead…" the gruff gangster answers. A chair is pulled from the darkness, giving him a seat to face his captive. Still sitting taller than Gar by a few inches, his grizzly face seems so alien next to the chiseled half of his human side. "It's time to make a choice. Time to determine whether you live or you die."

"I suppose I don't have a choice in the matter? Nothing to reason with, no chips to lie on the table?" It's too early to be so philosophical, not to mention the urge to pee's been creeping up on him the past few minutes.

"Actually, you do…" Folding his hands in his lap, crossing a leg over the other in business style, he asks of the younger man "Are you willing to talk about _business_? It _might_ help your chances."

"Business? It depends on the type. I never was good at workin' stocks."

"Nothing financial, only one of retaliation. The Irish have been going after my new weapons dealers because their small gang's afraid of losing their last lifeline. Without us super criminals, as you'd say, there's not enough money left to keep paying the GCPD their regular payoffs."

"Business indeed although I'm getting a political vibe out of this." Gar admits, foot tapping a bit as the urge to piss starts to become more annoying.

"While we're not thrilled you've decided to make my suppliers reconsider working with me, we're reasonable, fair men. After all, we're willing to give you what you want in exchange for something _we_ want."

No point arguing, this _could_ end up saving his life. "I'm all ears."

"Good. But first, we want to know who it is you've been looking for. It must be someone the Irish can't track down easily. For as good as they may be with weapons shipments and getting drunk, they're not large enough to find the big rollers of our trade."

That last bit stings Gar a bit, thinking back to his days with the Doom Patrol and the Titans. "_Trade_? Since when did being a supervillain become a _trade_?"

The look in Gar's eyes is picked up on by Two Face, who's sinister smile has turned to curious surprise. "What just went through your mind just now? When I was Gotham's D.A., I used to see that look whenever I cracked through a defendant's poker face. What just went through your mind?"

If he's being given the floor, might as well run with it. "Superheroes and supervillains, two modern words for the same thing they've always been: Yin and Yang. Two sides, one good and one evil, but never quite the other. And yet, sometimes heroes can have a little evil in them and evil can have a little good."

"You don't need to lecture me on Yin and Yang, boy." Two Face warns, considering the comment to be…

"But maybe the rest of your kind do. The metahumans, the masks, those who've been twisted into this _trade_ as you call it. Has it ever occurred to either side that the reason the other exists is simply because of them in the first place?" Leaning forward as much as he can in the chair despite the ropes, Gar appears to be trying to lean in with his face towards his captor. "It's why I'm not going to remain loyal when you ask me to turn on the Irish. Good, evil, it's nothing more than a man-made condition to keep people like you and me from getting the better of the weak."

…

"Very philosophical, boy. Did you come up with all of this on your own?" The taunt isn't as whole-hearted as he might've minutes prior, the commentary having reached his brain as intended.

Back in his seat again, Gar bluntly replies "No, it's something a _deathly_ pale woman told me as I was about to die."

The comment, however, has an unintended consequence. Putting Gar in the face, Two Face snarls "There's no way you know about her, YOU'RE JUST TRYING TO MOCK US!"

Eye bruising but still open, Gar spits again and faces his assailant "I'm not… You've seen her _too_, _haven't you?_"

A hard backhand and other roar of anger, Two Face bellows once more "BE QUIET! Someone must have stolen our medical files, told you about her to try and…"

"Her name was Death, wasn't it? She came to you when you had your accident. She must have, she must only do that when we're really at our end… Two Face, she came to me as well, told me how God doesn't see things in terms of man's morality. If I was going to fuck with you, I'd bring your wife into this, but not something as important to me and you as what _she_ said!"

Still snarling, his temper raging but not nearly out of control, he stares down the battered young man, his green eyes pleading with him to understand… Could he know what he saw that day his face was blown to kingdom come?

* * *

On the morning of the 20th, Renee Montoya enters her apartment to a sight to behold. Part of his face wrapped in gauze, his body bruised and beaten, Garfield Logan sits on the couch with a swollen eye but still very much alive. Her surprise turns to muted happiness at his presence, moving to his side with a mixture of sadness and joy.

"I thought they killed you. God, what the hell happened?"

Muffled a bit, he answers simply "God? No, God didn't get me out of this, a woman in black did."

"Who?"

Changing subjects, he tells her "Renee, you know I've been working with the Irish, right?"

Keeping her talk with Batman a secret, she replies "Only that you've been talking with them. Why? Did they do this to you?"

"No. The man who did this is the same one who finally gave me what the Irish wouldn't."

Confusion reigning in her mind, she asks dumbfounded. "Who told you? Who did they give you?"

"A man with two faces told me where I could find a world-class sniper. Renee, Deadshot's next target is the Mayor of Gotham City."

Her surprise definitely takes the better of her but before she can ask, he cuts her off to ask "But that's business. I also had to promise Two Face something in exchange for him turning the other cheek to a bad coin toss." Eyes narrowing, he tells her "You have to keep the GCPD from stopping his revenge against the Irish. Otherwise he'll let Deadshot know I plan to stop him and neither you nor me will get what we want."

No more surprise, only a conflict of interest for her now. "How can you ask me to do that when I'm an officer of the law? You can't just expect me to…"

"It's one more secret we'll both have to keep. I'm an ex-superhero from Jump City… and you work with Question on the side without GCPD consent…" Narrowing his eyes just a bit, more to drive the point home, he concludes "Not to mention we both have an interest in the same sex."

* * *

A/N2: As in the comics, Detective Renee is not only working with Q, she's also an alcoholic (or recovering, not sure yet), as well as a lesbian. These 3 facts were spread throughout the early part of this arc, this brings it all together. She wasn't even in the DCU until the cartoon came out, I'm just trying to enhance it. She's not in love with Gar but having someone around who can think like her, and work like Question just like her, might make things a little more bearable around Gotham. Unfortunately, trouble fits Gar like a tight, leather glove and it always seems to follow him.  
Speaking of which, Gar turning on the Irish in exchange for Deadshot? This could have consequences, indeed... Was that another Batman reference? He scares me.

Trivia:  
- Montoya's lesbianism is a DCU trait, not sure about the cartoon.

Rhetorical: Gar's talk with Two Face here wasn't as psychotic because this Gar isn't as psychotic as Draft One's could be from time to time. I still feel it's rather intense however, hope you do too.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: For a day or so I was worried about how I'd get Deadshot and Gar into a fight... then it occured to me that somethings happen just out of pure, dumb luck (or in this case, a mixture of that and shitty luck). Still, this may be one of the more violent and (at the end) disturbing fights I've ever written. Forget that last draft with drillbits and nails, this one has me cringing (my co-writer Baptist will understand why). Before people question my treatment of DC's most deadly assassin, consider the circumstances and unpredictability of his opponent. Afterall, he's still human while Gar... well...

* * *

**Under a Blood Red Sky...**

"_April 1st, 2008… The day I was told Deadshot would be making his move against the Mayor. Who was paying him, who was behind it all, or why he was even aiming for the Mayor was all beyond me at that moment. All I understood is that this was the opportunity I had been dying for since the day I found out Jinx had died from one of his bullets. I couldn't afford to waste this chance, not when I've come so far and gone through so much…"

* * *

_

With the sun high in the blood, red sky, the gathering for the Mayor's speech has swelled. Nearly a thousand people of all walks of life crowd the closed-down avenue, eager to hear his plans for the city and its future. Surely that future will depend on the countless number of police authorities all around the event, ranging from horse-mounted officers to heavily armed riot guards. Tensions are running high despite the optimistic premise of this day's speech.

For a black raven above the buildings, however, the speech is the last thing on it's mind. Glaring to and front in search of prey, it seeks out every possible hiding spot and vantage point. No small birds or rodents on this hunter's menu, only another wild dog that needs to be put down…

* * *

"_I'd like to say the search for Deadshot went on for hours, just for the dramatic flair, but in all of my years as a crimefighter, I've never caught such a lucky break as that day. I've been told the hardest thing to do in a battlefield is to find a sniper before he finds you… Well, moving up the iron steps of an office building, I saw the object of my hatred. Sure he was in a black trench coat but the mask, more specifically that eyepiece gave him away. Careless on his part to be found so easily… unless he wasn't expecting anyone other than the Bat to get him._

_Why, I don't know, but I didn't tackle him right away. No, I stayed in bird form and followed him on his little trek towards his lookout. When he snuck inside the building, I decided to follow him inside in the form of a moth. Silent, unsuspecting, and yet so harmless to a man used to holding the power of God in his hands. Down the empty hallways, through the office that once probably held the manager, and up to the wall-sized window... A nice little cut in the window, enough for a rifle barrel to be sure._

_I have to admit, he picked a beautiful place to shoot from. A straight shot from about eight blocks down the avenue… a picture-perfect shot that even a junior sniper could make with little difficulty. From here, he'd have at least a minute, maybe two to disassemble the weapon, pack it, get out of the building, and down the steps. By the time any serious trouble arrived, he'd be in a vehicle down below and gone before the police could identify a possible suspect. Hating him or not, I had to give him the respect of being a well-trained, well-scouted man… but every criminal has his day of reckoning._

_As a fly on the wall, a trick I'd gotten into trouble with many a'time over the years, I could observe this monster with unfettered access. Precise, wasting no effort with each check of the weapon's components for any last-second mistakes in the pre-check. Naturally there wasn't a single flaw, just the chilling sounds of metal clicking together as the sniper rifle, a model I couldn't identify, transformed from simple parts to an instrument of death. The speech must've been getting good, I could hear his sarcastic, almost Kevin Spacey-like voice musing on giving the people "a show they won't forget"._

_I knew the time had come when he put that red-colored lens of an eye to the scope, bracing the stock of the gun to his shoulder in preparation. This was the moment I had been mentally bracing myself for months for; now was the time to seize it…"

* * *

_

"Looks like that speech of his is wrapping up. Time to give the critics something to review about…" Deadshot speaks to himself, unaware that the harmless fly on the door has just changed into a six foot four mass of angry, vengeance-seeking Garfield Logan.

"Bang…" Gar announces, mimicking Deadshot's own town. One press of the trigger and a single round is fired from the M1911.

Quick as a cat, Deadshot rolls to his left, readjusting in time to aim his two forearm machineguns. The sound of the window shattering from the bullet mentally triggers the command to fire, sending streams of hot lead screaming for Gar's face. Quick as a cat, Gar also has thrown himself out of the way of the bullets, rolling to the side and re-aiming.

"Well, that was impressive…" Deadshot remarks, bemused though still retaining his sarcasm.

Not deterred by the twin guns aimed at him, Gar keeps his aim steady and true. "Well you don't go after the world's best sniper without preparing for the toughest fight of your life."

Standing up though still aiming his guns, the master assassin remarks "Flattery will get you everywhere, kid. But maybe I'll be generous and let you have an open casket…"

…

Bullets burn throughout the hallway leading to the back staircase as Gar and Deadshot trade bullets throughout the emptied office. The cubicles still standing, providing weak defense against the incoming rounds, serves for an excellent location of cat-and-mouse. Unlike Garfield, however, Deadshot has far more rounds in his guns than Gar does in his standard-issue pistol.

Using his forearm guns as cover, Deadshot jumps out from across a series of cubicles, distraction enough for him to make a break for the steel steps.

"Fuck if I let you…" Gar curses, realizing his own ammo shortage puts him at the weak end of the fight.

By the time he catches up, he looks down to see where DS is off to, a few shots aimed his way force his head back.

"Just my luck. I had him dead to rights and now he's making this a chase." Checking his ammo fast, the last few bullets in his arsenal are inside the pistol. "Gotta make em' last."

Below, the sound of a motorcycle engine catches his ear. Deadshot's going to try and outrun him in a vehicle. That little bit of knowledge brings a juicy smile to his face. "You got wheels," the ex-hero remarks, watching the sniper speed off "but I got wings."

* * *

The mid-day traffic slows Deadshot down a little but not enough to keep him from escaping a fair distance from the office building. Coat still intact though tattered and having a few bullet holes, he never-the-less seems to be holding up safe. The rows of expensive cars and unwanted pedestrians just serve to aggravate him however. At one point, he raises his right forearm and shoots above several pedestrians passing at an intersection. The intended result is achieved as the people hit the deck long enough for him to speed through without him having to run over any non-combatants.

…

"Finally. But I wonder just _who exactly_ that kid was?" Deadshot speaks, his breathing sped up just a hair from the escape.

"_I couldn't attack him in the middle of traffic or around a bunch of civilians; the risk for causalities was too high. So I decided to follow him in my hummingbird form until he reached a safer section of Gotham's Central Park. Surprisingly he stopped and turned the bike off. Maybe he thought no one would look for him in such a public setting as the largest park in all of Gotham City. Well, I gave him an education on that mistake, didn't I?"_

Helmet off, exposing the thin face of Floyd Lawton (a.k.a. Deadshot), the hitman moves for the public bathroom. To his relief, he's the only man inside… Looking into the graffiti-marked mirror, he runs some water to wipe the sweat from his face.

"Whoever that kid was, I'll be sure to pay him back for ruining the job." A splash of cold water sooths the skin, washing away the filth Gar's fight with him created. Leaning up however, he's presented with a terrific sight.

"You could start by telling me who paid you?"

\This time Deadshot's turn-and-shoot tactic is derailed as Gar lunges forward and grasps the forearms, using his much-greater strength to propel them skyward. The last of the bullets are emptied into the ceiling, the faint sounds of screaming outside alerting the general populace.

"Bad move, _Deadshot_." Still grasping his arms, Gar spreads both and uses the top of his head to violently smash Mr. Lawton square in the nose. The rush of blood and nasal pressure has the hitman grabbing for his nose but Gar will have none of it. Letting go of the arms, he instead takes him by the head and throws him face-first into the mirror, shattering it on contact.

"You've killed quite a few people, haven't you _Deadie_?" Gar asks, no sign of humor in his voice but barely restraining a sense of malice in each word. "How many would you say? A hundred? Two hundred? THREE hundred?"

"What's it to you, kid?" Deadshot asks before a hard kick to the gut sends him rolling back a few feet towards the bottom of a stall's wall.

"No matter who you've killed, no matter how evil they might've been, you've still done the one thing every religion, every government, and every sense of moral fiber forbids us from doing: Taking the life of another person."

"Goes with the job." Lawton spits back, streams of blood from glass-laden wounds and his nose staining the bruising skin. With the white tile floor turning crimson, he defies his attacker with a bold question "Considering what you're about to do, I'd say you're just as bad as I am, wouldn't you agree?"

…

Dragging the body of Floyd Lawton into the bathroom stall from under the wall, Gar lifts him up and shoves his head into the bowl. "The difference between you and me is you're just a wild dog on a leash. Me? I'm the fucking pound man!"

Brought up for air, the yellow water only makes the mixture of blood, sweat, and urine that much more gruesome. "You're insane! You not one of those Justice Leaguers or the Feds, are you?"

Pulling his head back hard, Gar shifts his face towards his own, teeth snarling in hate "Do I LOOK like a cop?"

SPLASH, back into the water. Not very long this time as Gar has something to ask of Lawton.

"Now that the foreplay's done, maybe we can get some business done. You have a name in your head that I'd like to know and you WILL tell me."

Coughing on the rancid bile of water, Deadshot's sarcasm fades to a sense of growing worry and panic. "Tell you WHAT? Who the hell do you want to know about?"

"October six, 2007. You were in Jump City to execute a hit on a high-profile mask. I want to know who ordered the hit." The grip around Deadshot's head is such that trickles of blood begin to drip onto Gar's fingers.

His teeth hissing from the pain, Deadshot weakly informs his attacker "I've had a lot of targets in the past few months… Who did I kill?"

This time it isn't into the bowl for Floyd Lawton, this time it's against one wall and then against the other wall, both times face first. Turning him around so he can face Gar directly, the black eyes of the assassin meet the fiery eyes of a raging beast.

"A Teen Titan member by the name of Jinx. I was there when you killed her!"

…

And then the eyes of Deadshot rise in horrified realization at whom he's been assailed by. The similar height, build, and green eyes… Sure the colors are different but the other little clues all compound into one obvious truth. "You're him, aren't you? You're the Watchman, from Jump City?"

Leaning in close enough to bite his face off, Gar asks dangerously "Now you can answer my question: Who paid you to kill her? Whoever paid you to do so is probably the same person who happened to tell you my other _name_."

"If… if I tell you… will you let me go?" Deadshot asks, the blood and grime not an issue on his mind anymore. Only the very real concept that he might die here fills his mind.

Thinking back to Two Face's coy remark, Gar reminds him "Can't hurt your chances."

Taking a breath, he informs the young man with "F.H. Ripper, that's what he called himself."

"F.H. Ripper? What kind of a name is that?"

"I don't know. I got the call when I was working overseas. He told me to get to Jump as soon as I could, some of his people were having trouble with an upstart "superhero". He told me they wanted _you_ out of the picture but he insisted I kill _her_ instead. Probably to send a message but he wouldn't say for sure."

"F.H. Ripper, that's all you got on him?" Gar demands, another lead in a vast stream of leads. Looks like the 3 big gangs of Jump City were overruled by this new name and _that_ can't be good in the long run.

"He did have one thing to tell me in case we ever ran into each other like this, I don't know why he told me it but… He told me to ask you "How's Kristine doing?" if I ever…"

No chance to finish that statement as Gar levels a vicious right cross through Deadshot's jaw, bouncing his head off of the bowl. His eyes cloudy, swimming between consciousness and a black out, Gar practically roars as he moves to the door. Using the large, metal trashbin to wedge the door shut, he returns to the injured Deadshot with the last of his bullets being chambered for firing.

"So this will make everything feel better, will it?" Deadshot asks in a murmur, his head bobbing slightly from the daze still. "Say you kill me, will it make things any better? She isn't coming back…"

Aiming the gun at his face, Gar reminds him "You think I don't know that? You think I don't know that he's killed two women in my life? He paid a high-priced thug to gun down my former teammate and then he has my girlfriend mutilated! As far as I concerned, your life isn't worth one of theirs, not even ten of yours is worth one of theirs. The world will be far better off without another wild dog like you."

Gaining enough clarity to see straight, Gar no longer appearing as three different bodies floating in haze, Deadshot replies "Kill me then. My one death won't keep people from paying others to do their killing for them. Release me from this life; it's the only thing I've ever wanted. To buy the farm against someone who went toe to toe with me and lived; I won't complain."

…

"_And in that moment, I could feel every inch of body screaming to put that bullet straight through his head. Kill him, I thought, and Jinx would be avenged and I could begin looking for the man who's behind all the gangs in Jump City… but could I take a life like this? Could I WILLINGLY take a life whereas before it was the result of the moment. A booby trapped box and a truck bomb exploding when neither was meant to kill by my hand… But if I pulled the trigger here, despite what Death might've said, I would move into the realm of willingly committing evil… And yet, I couldn't let him get off without punishment, now could I?_

…

"Do you really want to escape this life so badly? Have you met your match as it were?" Gar asks, anger fading away to a more controlled, more dominant tone.

With a weak nod, Deadshot relents "You took me to my limit, I'll admit that. And yes, I don't want to live this life anymore. If you're going to do it, do it now… Otherwise I'll just…"

Sealing the deal, Gar aims the pistol barely a foot away from Deadshot's left kneecap. "Wish granted."

* * *

Back at Montoya's, Gar sits at the couch with a glass of whiskey going strong, hands still trembling as he watches the news. While Montoya can't be here to see this, the reason for her absence is clear enough on the screen.

"_Floyd Lawton, also known as the hired assassin "Deadshot", was found critically wounded this afternoon in a restroom in Gotham Central Park. Police have not released a full account of the criminal's injuries but witnesses on the scene tell of a gruesome tale."  
"His knee looked like it was shot with a bazooka or something, it was just mangled all to hell. Blood and fluids everywhere…"_

"_According to officials, the police are still unsure just who happened to assault Deadshot as the victim has been unconscious since his discovery this afternoon. However, the criminal may wish to remain in this state as we're now learning that he may have been plotting to kill the Mayor this…"_

Turning the TV off, Gar resigns himself to another long drink of the brown liquor. Hand shaking more violently now than before, the mental images of Deadshot's face contorting in absolute terror and pain at the shot… just happens to look as painful and horrifying as the face Kristine wore when he entered her apartment that fateful day in October…

* * *

A/N2: I'm expecting some people to say "OMG, this fight was awesome"... truthfully, it was chapters like these that often made me want to escape writing this story from time to time. Reading (and writing) this is something that makes even me cringe... How far can Gar justify his actions... how much pain can he inflict? How cruel has he _really_ become before he realizes it? And more importantly, who is this "F.H. Ripper?"

Trivia:  
- References to Deadshot's V.A. from Justice League (and his Kevin Spacey accent)

Rheotrical:  
We're coming to the last 3 chapters of this arc... it's gonna be good.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Sorry for the delay, this chapter took two drafts and peeling myself away from nice weather to complete. With Deadshot dealt with, Gar's next target is F.H. Ripper... but trouble has a way of finding him first, doesn't it? Still, it's funny how sometimes the best way to get little revenges is to cause total chaos. I'm not sure if this chapter is darkly funny or a bit sick (at the end) but there's a reason for this (remember, there's 2 more chapters after this and the Irish aren't done yet).

* * *

**Under a Blood Red Sky...**

Quietly, softly, the footsteps in the alleyway stepping through puddles of recently-fallen rain, Jump's former "vagrant vigilante" walks towards fate incognito. Hands in his coat, chilly from the cool, mid-April air, he doesn't cast the slums around him more than a second glance. Only forward do his green eyes stare though not choosing to see the path before him; only the memories behind him.

…

"_You shot him in the kneecap?"_

"_Better to shoot him there than to kill him, wasn't it? That bastard was going to kill the Mayor if I…"_

"_How was he going to kill him from inside a bathroom stall twenty blocks away? Maybe he was there and you chased him back to that bathroom… but you didn't have to SHOOT HIM!"_

"_He didn't have to shoot at me in that office but he chose to. He would've killed me if I hadn't!"_

"_You might as well have killed him! It took six days for him just to return to consciousness and an entire lifetime just to learn to walk again!"_

"_Are you saying it's ok that he's murdered dozens of people in his entire life but because he got a taste of his own medicine, it's suddenly a crime?"_

"_You're supposed to be a "hero", someone who doesn't stoop to their level! That wasn't "heroic", it was sadistic! You tried to drown him in a dirty toilet and then blew his kneecap apart!"_

"_Remember what I told you? I'm NOT a "hero" and I'm not here to protect HIS rights!"_

"_You're right, you're not a hero. You're dangerous, just like a wild animal…"_

"_YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT I'M LIKE A WILD ANIMAL!"_

…

Two weeks of living on the streets again, brought on by a furious argument between two people who, while technically on the same side of the law, see things in two shades of gray. Two weeks of wandering around one of America's largest cities with nothing but a few dollars in his pocket and a pair of bullets remaining in his M1911. The bullets could be reacquired, money could be stolen from drug pushers, but something important had been lost for good: His moral compass.

…

Despite the heavy binge he went on the night he shot Deadshot, the fact remained that sometimes people have what's coming to them and that he'd be the one to act out that divine will from time to time. All part of being a "vigilante", right? Or maybe part of being a man driven to his breaking point in search of closure… Although the loose ends still needed to be wrapped up if he'd ever find that closure. The Irish would need to be dealt with, Two Face having kept to his word meant Gar owed him that much, as well as tracking down this elusive "F.H. Ripper"

"F.H. Ripper, that's pretty arrogant of you." Gar speaks aloud to himself, never bothering to care that several homeless look his way with confused stares. "F.H., "From Hell", just like the quote on Kristine's wall. You sure went a long way just to get me pissed off; I hope you're ready then when I find you. I'll tear our your ribcage just to hear you plead for mercy… God might grant you mercy but I won't."

* * *

"_During my stay in Gotham, Montoya was kind enough to reveal several other pub crawls that known criminals were known to frequent. One establishment, a ratty-looking pug of a place called "Searle's Bar & Grill" was the place I decided to make my return to being more… "Watchman" like."_

..

Entering the bar, Gar looks side-to-side to see just who's decided to stop in for a beer. Men in coats, or at least most of them are, line the bar and tables. Some have fits of laughter from their conversations but most seem to be in their own world, saved only by occasional hits on the women behind the bar and/or the beers in their hands. Gotham City's infamous "no smoking" rule for bars seems to have been forgotten as tobacco sits heavy in the atmosphere of classic rock, sports on the television, and bad times on the rise.

"F.H. Ripper!" Gar shouts out, catching the room by surprise at this loud, tall, hulk of a man at the doorway. Not to mention his shabby beard and tired eyes, giving the men the impression this man hasn't seen a shower in some time. "Anybody ever heard that name?"

"Fuck off, piss stain!" is one of the replies from the crowd, an older man with a bottle of beer in his hand. "Go beg for change outside!"

"I'll say it one more time…" Gar begins, before pulling out his gun and holding it up for people to see. "Has anyone ever heard of a "From Hell Ripper?"

The gun has the expected reaction as the bar's occupants, those who notice at first, scurrying away with shouts aimed at diffusing any trouble before Gar shoots. "Put that fucking thing away, you psycho! What the fuck?"

"Has anybody HEARD that name or SEEN him? I'm running out of patience!" Taking a step forward, noticing the two men to his side at the table backing away, he suggests "Give me a clue here and I'll be on my way!"

"Hey, I know you!" a man shouts from the back with an Irish accent. "Hey, you're Logan, ain't ya?"

Lowering the gun at the voice, people moving out of his way, Gar aims the pistol straight at a young bloke in the back, beer falling from his hand in fright. "You're one of Someone's crew, aren't you?"

"Shit!" the young man curses his luck and bolts from the side door.

* * *

"_I didn't want to follow him in a footrace. So, as I did with Deadshot, I decided to follow him in the air as a bat. The night made it hard for him to tell I was still there but I could "see" him plenty well. We weren't THAT far away from Someone's pub and I was sure he was making a bee-line straight for that Irish prick. Wasn't sure if Two Face began his "revenge" or not but if I beat him to the punch., I wouldn't owe him, would I?_

_How could I attack a fully-loaded pub with just two bullets in my gun while they probably had dozens? Well, it would be time for some of Question's training for that sort of thing. One man cannot take on an entire army… but if you contain him, narrow his ability to spread out, you have him right where you want him: One on One. The Mad Irish Pub was about to receive a lesson in what they'd been doing to people, both here and in Ireland, for decades._

_With all the noise going on in that pub, no one would notice a bug flying through the crowded bar, into the basement door, and floating down to the basement. All those loud insults, that wailing music, no one would hear me break open the fuse box. And with Someone upstairs doing "shot for shot" with some of his buddies, they wouldn't be in the mindset to hear me take aim and fire a single bullet into the box. In an rain of sparks, the lone shot did it's job as the entire bar went dark. Funny how the only person who could see his way out of that hellhole was a spider who could see it's way through the dusty stairwell and back to the main room."_

…

"What the hell's goin' on, boss? You forget to pay the light man?" one of the patrons demands, a combination of intoxication and darkness mixing to form a dangerous condition for walking.

"Power's out but lights are on across the street." Fermanagh calls out, looking out of the window towards the homes across the street.

"So wat in the fuck hap'ened? Did the fuckin' box turn a'trip?" Someone demands, calling out for anyone with a cell phone. "Get a'light an'check down there, aye?"

A slam of the door though, coming from the basement door that is, catches everyone's attention in a heartbeat. The few cell phones people have for light turns towards that direction but nothing seems out of place to cause the noise.

"'ey! Who t'be makin' that noise, aye?" Someone demands, trying to make out the figure.

Nothing outside of the shuffling of several people, the booze really isn't helping in this darkness.

"Hey, who the fuck did that?" Fermanagh warns, reaching for something in his back pocket. "Speak or I'll give ya a reason to hide!"

Beside Someone, a zippo light snaps to life, revealing Garfield Logan's face enough for the boss of the Irish to see. With an evil stare forming a dangerous grin, Logan answers simply "Boo!"

* * *

"_What happened next can only be described as pandemonium to say the least. Now, for the record, I can see in the dark better than your average human thanks to my condition, my "disguise" be damned. Not that I can see perfectly but I can make out "shades" of peoples' forms in the darkness, just like if you had night-vision goggles for eyes. So, when you're in the middle of a group of nearly a hundred Irishmen, who potentially could be armed, and all you got is one bullet in your gun, you do something crazy. After I slugged Someone in the face, I got to work doing just that._

_After the punch, I grabbed the nearest beer bottle I could and chucked it into the crowd, over the bar patrons' heads. Didn't even wait for the bottle to impact, just grabbed a few more and started throwing them in random directions._

"_Jesus Christ!" one shouts, the bottle may have hit him, I'll never know._

"_He's chuckin' fuckin' glass from the bar!" another one bellowed out but the darkness still gave me the edge._

_Figured it was time to get nasty. On the bar was a nearly-empty bottle of Jameson… imagine the pain that sucker gave the poor bastard that got hit with that fifth?_

_And that's when things got truly weird. Rather than the Irish all bothering to rush the bar and attack this mysterious bastard, they turned on each other. A bad mixture of disorientation, heavy drinking, and hundreds of years of Celtic heritage doesn't make the world's most peaceful combination. The bastards actually started to fight each other, grabbing each other in the dark and punching them, not even knowing who they hit. With Someone down for the moment, I decided to go after my next best choice: "Mad" Michael Fermanagh._

_Hopped the bar easily enough but getting through the crowd was… a bit of a challenge. Irish fists swinging in the dark, might as well have been a convention for blind people with anger issues given the environment. Still, there was certainly madness to it all, enough that even I couldn't resist laughing before I got within reach of Fermanagh. I saw the crowd part like the Red Sea, as if on cue, so I took my shot. A running, spearing tackle into that bastard that sent us crashing back down the basement steps, the door splinting around us…_

_Down into the dark basement, where his eyes would fail to help land a punch. Despite the ruckus carrying on upstairs, I could still hear him enough even if the thicker blackness made him seem more like a shadow than night vision  
"You stupid, fucking…"_

"_Boy?" I dared, wanting to drive his temper up a few more degrees._

"_YOU! I fuckin' knew you'd be trouble, boy, but Someone just had to be a regular drunk ass, didn't he?" He was looking around, trying to "feel" me out I suppose but good luck finding me… "Well, I'll do the pleasure of killin' ya for him. It was only a'matter a'time before we put two in yer' head."_

"_Why kill me? Haven't done anything wrong to you, have I?" I asked, circling slowly, cautious in case he got a bead on my voice and pulled a gun in the darkness._

"_First we thought you to be an undercover badge but looks like we to be wrong, ain't we now? We heard about what you did to Deadshot…"_

"_And?"_

"_And we know how you managed to find him. Did you really think we wouldn't find out bout ya dealin' with the man of two faces?"_

_Backing towards the wall, I offered before crouching "I trusted American help because if you're looking for good help then the Irish need not apply."_

_That did it, set him off nice and loud. He roared pretty loud for a human, throwing his fist right at the spot my voice had come from. Not too smart though if he threw it right at the cement wall, who knows how many bones he damaged with it. Sure sounded angry and in pain though if you ask me._

_No time to let up though. Brought one of my knees into his mid-section, bringing a gasp of air and some spit flying. Followed it up with a pistol-whip across the face, letting him taste the cold steel he lent me during that first crime in January._

_I took my time beating him up, attacking him from behind and then from the front, kept him off balance while bringing him closer to the basement hatch Someone had warned me about. He told me he'd dump my body down into the sewers from that hatch if I pulled a double-cross. Well, I'd find out just what was in that hatch that night._

_With one last charge, he came in swinging. Why did he lose his composure that night, I wish I knew. Swinging like a madman in total darkness like that… Was it because of booze or the darkness? Maybe out of the blind rage that earned him the name "Mad", I'll never know. All I know right now is I dropped to the ground, wrapped my legs around his ankle, and dropped him face-first into the concrete. That did it, knocked the air right out of him and gave me the chance to open the hatch._

"_You're…. you're… insane…" he gasped, struggling to catch his breath but still holding that malice in his tone._

"_The pot and the kettle?" I asked, lifting him over towards the open sewer shaft and pushing him in. I could hear the metal rungs as he grabbed onto the iron railings, his raspy voice pleading me not to do this. "Begging, Fermanagh? You SHOULD! You've killed so many people, ruined so many lives… Keep begging when you meet the Almighty, it just might earn you a trip to purgatory instead of where you rightfully belong!"_

_A boot to his face, I sent him down to his concrete hell. Not too far down, maybe fifteen feet, but he managed to survive. I knew this because a series of lights inside the sewer below came to life, illuminating Fermanagh on the ground, he leg bent in a bad way…_

_But it wasn't the sound of his broken body that started to scare me, it was the sound of something very large, very ominous approaching from somewhere in the sewers. Like the sound of a heavy animal, bestial growling echoing from the thick walls._

"_Tick… tock… here comes the CROC!"_

_I didn't close the hatch, not at first. I watched as Fermanagh screamed for mercy, screamed for his life… Fitting that a man who's caused so much fear and death would howl like a little girl as the monster approached him. _

_I didn't see Croc in his entire form, outside of a scaly mass of green, reptilian flesh descend on Fermanagh. It only took a few seconds to tear apart his body, greedily gnawing on the dismembered limbs. The sickening sound of slurping, enjoying this fresh feast with all the joy of a hungry lion taking down a large kill._

_Then, he sniffed the air, smelling something that must've been as alien to his nose as his appearance was to my eyes. Then, looking up the shaft, he made eye contact with me. Those yellow, reptile-like eyes staring back at me despite my being hidden in the dark basement._

"_Thanks for the meal… heheehe… but I'll get you one day… I've got your scent!"

* * *

_

"_I left the Mad Irish Pub even as the fight started to wear down. Two Face was right about them being a rowdy group of drunks and small-timers. They didn't even realize their most fear-inspiring goon had been fed to their "pet" while their new biggest enemy had just wandered through their midst, heading for the door as chairs and bottles flew all around…"

* * *

_

A/N2: Yes, "Mad" Michael Fermanagh died. Feel rushed? What, did you expect some big, over-the-top battle? People die just as easily as everyone else... just because they happen to seem important doesn't mean they're immune from plot-death. Hell, Jinx wasn't, Kristine wasn't... who's to say Gar isn't? Gar's now dealt with the Irish... I wonder if he'll be paying "ol' Two-fie" a visit?

Trivia:  
- Ah, Croc, I hardly knew ye.

Rhetorical:  
Before you judge that barfight... have you ever been drunk in the dark and a bottle (or fist) hits you? As someone in that situation before, I can tell you the first thing I did was punch out the guy next to me... ^_^ fun night._  
_


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Written in less than an hour while listening to Fleetwood Mac's "Say You Will" and "Dreams". Gar's about to find himself in a world of shit, thanks to an old enemy from his Jump days as well as a tragic turn of events in his life (once again). Not to mention another Batman appearance but, as usual, Bat's is more mysterious than helpful... Ah, the wine's going down smooth tonight...

**Under a Blood Red Sky...**

"_Be careful what you wish for, my dad told me when I was younger. It's not that "you just might get it" but it might be something you're not prepared for. Like if you wish your girlfriend would just shut up, leave you alone… and she walks out the door and you never see her again. Well, if you spend a certain amount of time looking for someone, even if that someone happens to be horrifying, then you should be careful, you just might find them."

* * *

_"_April 28th, 2008. Four full weeks since crippling Deadshot and a week since feeding Killer Croc some Irish cuisine. Another Gotham night under a blood red sky and another set of bars with no one able to point me in F.H. Ripper's direction. How he can remain invisible in one of the largest cities in the world is beyond me; it just doesn't make sense. A cruel, vicious murderer who has contacts with high-level gunmen and yet is as stealthy and cautious as a ninja playing chess…_

_Along my travels I found myself outside of the home of Renee Montoya's… a strange bit of emotion in that location. Not even three weeks since evicting me and here I was again, about to go knock on her door. Would she throw me out, again, or would she be more willing to listen? If I was lucky, she'd give me a head's up where to find Ripper so I could get the fuck out of Gotham and back to a normal life in Jump…_

… _but I'm not the lucky type, am I?"

* * *

_Nothing out of the ordinary at first to be seen… except for the curious fact that the door appears to be unlocked.

"_She never leaves the door unlocked…"_

With a gentle push, Gar opens the door but keeps his eyes peeled for any sight of trouble. The last thing he needs is to be jumped by some would-be robber or, worse, shot by Montoya thinking he's a burglar. Even with the setting sun, it's still hard to see inside the dim room, the red light casting long shadows over furniture, strips of window blinds like prison bars on the floor. Taking a look around, he can hear the sound of running water in the kitchen. Still, as he pokes his head inside, only the sight of a running faucet is there to greet the vigilante.

"_Water running and the door's unlocked…"_ producing his M1911, he snarls a bit in realization _"Somebody's here!"_

Gun trained forward as he tiptoes up the steps, eyes keen for any surprises, his mind is as focused as possible… But another creeping feeling begins to voice it's opinion in the back of his mind. A memory of a darker time in his life, a sadistic sight that helped shape his destiny as it were. After all, TJ White had committed his murder in nearly the same style as this…

…

Around the corner at the top of the hall, he pokes his gun into the bedroom, anxious to see if…

"Gar…" she whispers slightly, unable to from the pain of even bothering to speak.

Gun lowering, Gar rushes over to the detective with the sound of worried concern in his voice. It's justified certainly from the stab wounds, all four of them, scattered around her body. No where too life threatening but still risking death through blood loss. "Renee!"

"Gar… ssss.." hissing from the pain, she holds back some tears to warn him "Gar… he… took me by surprise."

"Don't talk. I'm calling the ambulance. You're not dying on me, I'm not losing another one of you…"

As he picks up the phone and dials, he hears her whisper in reply "That's… what he told me…"

Letting the comment go for now, Gar gives the address and report to the dispatcher. Within a minute or so, Gotham EMTs are on their way.

"What do you mean _he_ told you?" Gar asks, moving to her side again. Using his ragged coat for tourniquets, tearing away the leather for padding, he asks her again "Please, Renee, who did this to you?"

Gar leans in so she can tell him without exerting herself too much. "He… a man with two faces… One side was… human… the other…"

Unconsciously brought to a growl, Gar's eyes narrow and teeth clench in rage. _"Two Face, that bastard! Why did he have to bring her into this? That son of a bitch, I'LL FUCKING KILL HIM FOR THIS!"_

"Gar…?" she asks, struggling to reach for his face.

Taking her hand, he tells her honestly "Renee, you're hurt pretty bad. Don't talk, help's on it's way."

"I'm… sorry… about last time…"

Something wet forming at his eyes but this isn't the time for that. She'll live if only those medics would fucking get here! "Don't worry about that. You were right, I shouldn't have done that to him… But don't you fucking give up on me, you hear? I want you to see the man who did this dragged before the courts so you can put him behind bars for the rest of his miserable life!"

Offering a weak smile, she wraps her hand around his "Thank you… for…"

* * *

"Terrible. Who would do something like this to Renee? She's a good cop, never did anything wrong to nobody, never took a dollar from those thugs… And then someone has to go and stick her a couple of times just for doing her duty." Detective Harvey Bullock remarks from outside of the apartment. Watching the EMTs wheel her out of the apartment to the ambulance, his hat comes off and silently prays for her health.

"She told me a "man with two faces" did this to her. Detective, I think we both know who did this to her." Gar remarks, having to stay for "questioning" by the Gotham Detective.

"Maybe so but that doesn't explain why _you_ were the first one to find her. She told me she had company, a friend of a friend as of late, but that was weeks ago. Last I heard she kicked you out, didn't she?"

Also watching as the wounded officer is lifted into the ambulance, Gar remarks "She did. I actually came back to put the past behind us. She was right about me after all."

"Well since you're in such an apologetic mood, maybe you can shed some light on why _Two Face_ would do this?" Turning to the younger, though certainly not shorter, man next to him, Bullock comments "This isn't exactly Two Face's M.O. Last time I checked, he doesn't use knives to kill… not to mention we haven't got any witnesses who saw Harvey Dent enter the apartment."

"Who else in this city would have two faces? You're the expert here, I'm just a tourist."

Expression growing deeper with anger by the minute, the detective reminds him bluntly "You're right, you ARE a tourist. So why don't you do us a favor then and return to wherever you came from, huh? She told me you could be trouble from time to time and it seems your little shenanigans really did her a world of good, didn't it?"

"Detective Bullock, if I knew where to find the person who hurt OUR friend, do you think I'd waste our time talking to you like this? I need your help if we're going to catch the fiend who did this to Renee."

If he was going to retort, he suddenly stops himself as something apparently crosses his mind. Sighing, palming his forehead, he remarks "Can't believe I'm about to say this but I'm not sure _I_ know who did this… but I think I know someone who probably would."

"Who?"

"Take a look up in the clouds sometime, kid. You can't miss it, you can see that signal of his a couple a miles away."

* * *

On the roof of Gotham PD, Harvey and Gar stand next to each other, waiting as the powerful floodlight sends a message to the city's Dark Knight.

"Kid, listen." Harvey remarks, not caring to look at the man beside him. "Renee told me you were a guest of hers and not to go into depth about it. I don't know who you are and I really don't care. What I care about is getting the bastard that did this to her, you got that? I only brought you up here to talk to _him_ because you seem to know more about this than you're letting on. Remember that when _he_ shows up."

"You don't have to worry about me, Detective. As for your guest though, I can't be so sure."

…

A few moments later, the sound of movement comes thrashing through the air. Dropping to the ground from a grapple, the most fear-inspiring man in Gotham (maybe even the world) rises from a crouch to meet the two who've summoned him. Gar withholds a gulp of surprise at the sight of _the_ Batman, a sight that never seems to bring a tingle up his backbone.

"Listen, Bats, I'm not normally one to call on you like this but this is something of a necessity…" Harvey begins, trying to ease his way into…

"Renee Montoya was stabbed in her apartment by a man "with two faces". Do you know who this could be?" Gar interrupts, not giving a shit about Harvey's glares but just a little bit of concern to the iron stare of the Batman.  
"Who do _you_ think it was?" Batman asks suddenly, that slow, deliberate delivery speaking of untold stretches of knowledge but also of a curiosity of Gar's mind.  
"Two Face, plain and simple. He _is_ a criminal, right? He's been known to betray people in the past."

"Like you?" Batman asks, aware of Gar's activities for the past few months.

"How did you…?" Gar tries to ask but…

"If you're going to hide behind a disguise, I suggest not relying on technology provided by paranoid conspirators."  
_"No way, he even knows who I am! Did Q tell him or did he know from the very beginning?"_

"Listen, Bats, I don't have all day to listen to you two psycho-babble on about whatever you feel like. My partner was just assaulted and I want to know who did it! If you know, you better speak up, freak, or else…"

Still looking at Gar, Batman tells the young vigilante "If you think Two Face is behind this, pay him a visit at his office. Detective, would you tell him where it is?"

"Why? Why don't you just tell him where…?"

Turning around, a grapple aimed at a nearby ledge, he remarks "He's come this far already. It's not my place to step in this late in the game, is it?" Eying Garfield, he warns with a coldness that Raven would find disturbing "But if you're wrong, you better make sure you find Montoya's attacker. I won't wait for you much longer."

* * *

A few hours later, the doors to the Wild Deuce 2 betting house fly open, the guards inside surprised at first by the intrusion. Quickly, the two are dispatched by the new arrival, his blood-stained coat a reminder of the mission he's undertaken. Several of the guests flee this violent intruder, giving way to a mild panic that brings about a few other guards…

Minutes later, Two Face looks to the door of his office with startling confusion as a boot kicks in the wood, green eyes boring into his own as he advances.

"Two Face, the three of us need to have a word…" Before his own twin pistols can be raised, Gar has his gun aimed squarely at the mid-point of Two Face's regular and burnt faces. "I'm not in the mood for your shit, either. This isn't about chance, about "what's fair", it's about what's right."

"What are you babbling about?" the gangster growls, furious that this _kid_ dares to raise a gun at HIS faces.

"Renee Montoya, Detective working under Commissioner Gordon, was found nearly dead in her apartment a few hours ago. She told me it was committed by a man with _TWO_ faces, someone who just so happens to meet YOUR description."

Nerved by the sight of a 9mm pistol a foot away from his face, he leans back in his chair but maintains his composure. "I don't know what you're talking about! I don't even know why you're HERE, you're supposed to be…"

"What? Dead? Missing? Sleeping in an alleyway while ducking the Irish for throwing "Mad" Michael Fermanagh to the Croc? Well, guess what, I'm here, live in exciting Technicolor, and I'm PISSED OFF!"

"You were supposed to be dealing with the Irish, _he_ said so himself. That's why he asked me to send the Two Ton Gang off to help you finish them once and for all."

Narrowing eyes, Gar demands with a shout "WHO? WHO ASKED YOU?"  
"He told me you'd know by now. Besides, I don't know who the hell he was, he wouldn't give me his real name."

Pulling the hammer back, Gar's face twists with rage, his mind screaming to just end this criminal's life once and for all. "Give me a name…"

…

No chance as the phone rings, catching both by surprise. Gesturing towards it, Gar beckons him to answer the phone. Two Face obliges, lifting the receiver and asking who's calling. After a few seconds, he hands the receiver to Gar, telling him "He wants to speak to you, _Garfield_."

Confused, the vigilante doesn't relent in his aim but uses his other hand to answer the phone. "Who is this?"

"_It's been quite a long time, hasn't it Garfield… Mark… Logan?"_ The smooth delivery, just as it had on that fateful day in October, rings through Gar's body like a gunshot to the chest. The last time he heard that tone, that voice, Kristine found herself torn apart in her bedroom for him to find…

"Who _are_ you? You were in Jump City last year, you killed Kristine you bastard! Who the fuck ARE YOU?"

A cackle, chattering like the sound of skeleton's teeth, the sadist's mirth in his tone replies over the phone. _"Why I'm just a messenger, wandering the Earth from Hell."_

"Ripper…" Gar's acidic tone hisses into the earpiece. "What the hell do you want? Did you call Two Face's gang?"

"_I did… Oh, did I ever. I expected you to be here by now but you must have mistaken the dear Detective's description for someone other than myself. I do apologize for that, letting her live and all."_

"BASTARD!" Gar screams into the phone, wanting to rip the receiver from it's holder but knowing it'll ruin the connection. "WHERE ARE YOU? I'LL KILL YOU MYSELF YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

Howling with delight, the sound of teeth chattering once again, the ecstatic voice replies over the phone _"Would you dare try to end my life, Garfield Logan, then you should find yourself in a sad world indeed. But still, against my better judgment and your own physical well being, I defy you to come. Come to the Gotham International Airport. Hanger 18 of Freight Terminal C. Come as you are, Watchman, and come ready to meet with your death! I cannot wait any further to finally meet you again, as equal men this time I assure you."_

Smashing the phone down into it's holder, destroying the device on contact, Gar warns Two Face "Your men have just been lured into a trap. I advise you to call them and get them out of there, assuming they're still alive!"

* * *

A/N2: Well now, Ripper makes his (telephone) return again. And Gar's not going to be happy about this, not at all. One more chapter to go and it's going to be a bloodbath, let me tell you that much. Can't wait for the next Arc, it's entirely new territory for me (Draft 1 and Draft 2 never got that far).

Trivia:  
- TJ White reference, especially the running water and open door bit.. Hmm...

Rhetorical:  
If you thought Ripper's last appearance was sick... like the song says, "you ain't seen nothin' yet"


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: And here we go, the finale to the "Blood Red Sky" arc... and trust me, it WILL be bloody. I've been listening to Cannibal Corpse, Deicide, and Napalm Death for the last hour (it only took an hour to write this) and trust me, I think it'll reflect it. Ripper's grand debut is here, people get their just deserts, and we can now abandon the "Redux" title because from here on out, everything I write is entirely new territory (that wasn't in Draft One or Draft Two). Enjoy, I'm sure Skittles will.

* * *

**Under a Blood Red Sky...**

"_What was it like? It was like tearing your heart out and stomping it on the floor in a bloody mess. You don't plan for these sorts of things, despite this chosen "career path", and you certainly aren't prepared for this as a person. People often go into this "job" thinking they'll be loved, respected, even rewarded for righting the wrongs of our world…. That's exactly why all of those people are wrong. We aren't "rewarded" by the people we're trying to save; we're cursed to take a generation's pain on our shoulders so others won't have to."_

* * *

"_It all came down to this day, this very moment. Kristine and Jinx had died because this man had willed it, committed himself to this deed, and carried it out with a psychopathic glee. I could tell from that teeth-chattering laugh of his, that sick way he seemed to gloat over his own killings… and that was just over the phone._

_The section of Gotham International Airport was a rather quiet section, mainly used for freight holdovers so there wouldn't be much distraction for this fight. With luck the police would come and help me drag this bastard before the court, let him pay for the sins he's committed against humanity. But no, there would only be one judgment for this prick, and it was one I might consider willingly carrying out myself."_

Into the doorway of Hangar 18, his gun trained into the darkness, looking for targets… especially the man known as Ripper. To his surprise, however, he isn't greeted by a single man but rather a group of nearly a hundred. The three spotlights in the ceilings come to life, blinding him but a moment, but also revealing the irony of the people gathering at this hangar.

"GARFIELD!" A voice howls over the crowd's surprise at seeing the vigilante. All looking up to the catwalk, remarking with more surprise, a figure shrouded in a black cape and Victorian-era clothing appears. The tall, black top hat on his head covers the roots of his coal-black hair, stretching down to collarbone length in some places. But to the young vigilante's horror, the sight of this… thing's face scares him just a slight bit.

The "face" is nothing more than half a face. On Ripper's left side, a grayish skeletal surface greets Garfield Logan, teeth black and scraping together with a grinding, sickening sound. On his right, however, a flesh-colored face resembling a man in his 20's, single eye gleaming a crimson read, looks back with an evil smile of joy. However, the real horror is the sight that the flesh "face" is actually fluid, dripping off of the skull from to time and seemingly _shifting_ about, most unflesh-like indeed.

"I'm glad to finally meet you face-to-face, Garfield Logan. It's been so very long since I've last seen that face of your's."

Inwardly shivering from the chillingly manic voice of Ripper, Gar fires back with a growing sense of revulsion "You're Ripper, right? You're that son of a bitch that got my friends KILLED, RIGHT?"  
Gesturing in a wide arc with a black, polished cane, Ripper assures his guest "Indeed I am… Pleased to meet you, young one, and you certainly can call me Ripper if you'd like."

Tapping the cane down though for emphasis, Ripper shifts from introduction to another topic. "Perhaps you're wondering why I have brought so many people to our _date_? Well, it wouldn't be very _Christian_ to leave out those who've been ruined by your adventurism."

Noticing the ranks of men include the Irish gang and Two Face's Two-Ton Gang, Gar connects the dots rather well "So you've brought together the two gangs I've had contact with. What's your plan, use them against me? Rather obvious, Ripper, you need to do better than that."

To that end, Ripper belts out a booming roar of laughter, the jaw tearing at the fake flesh as it widens in a fantastic hoot of glee. "Dear boy, do you believe I would go through the trouble of bringing these men here just to get _my_ revenge?"

"What?" Noticing the looks on the gang members, something does indeed seem strange. They all stare at Gar with evil intentions but none of them seem to be caring what Ripper's spouting off.

Pointing his cane at the Two-Ton Gang, Ripper informs the vagrant "Do you see Two Face's men? They came here because the Irish were coming here. But despite your best hopes, as well as their boss's, they came to understand, as the Irish did, that they were set up by a mask disguising himself as a regular man. Once I informed the Irish that you were working with Two Face against them, they quickly saw things _my_ way. And when the Two-Ton Gang realized that you were _plotting_ to give Two Face over to Detective Montoya… well…"

"I never plotted to do ANYTHING like that!" Gar shouts back, anger rising a few notches at Montoya's name. "These Irish bastards wouldn't help me find Deadshot OR you so I went to someone who _could_!"

…

A hammer pulls back on a Smith & Wesson Model 29, a gun that Gar realizes belongs to the Irish leader himself. "Sure y'did, boy. Do ya suppose we t'be just lettin' ya do that, aye? Y'had no problem tur'nin Michael Fermanagh o'er to Croc, d'ya?"

Gun also aimed back at Someone, Gar reminds him "Remember that night when you told me if I betrayed you, you'd throw me down the sewer? You turned on me first so I returned the favor."

Several more of the Irish step up, hungry for revenge against what this boy did to their friend. But Ripper halts them, wanting to speak a bit more.

"There's more to this than you realize, Garfield." Ripper begins, folding both of his hands on the top of the cane. "This isn't going to be a fistfight to see who was right about killing that Irishman. No, this is going to be something you'll be forced to live with for the rest of your life."

"And why's that?"

Face grinning wild, manic, his eye dilated to it's smallest, Ripper replies in a laughing sort "Because the only way you're getting out of here alive is to kill every… single… last one of us!"

With the Two-Ton Gang and Irish spreading out, their weapons aimed at Gar, it seems that Ripper's words might be true. Still, it can't hurt to stall for just a little bit longer.

"Tell me something, Ripper. You seem to know a lot about me… but you couldn't have just found out about me. How long have you known me? Better yet, how long have you been using Jump City's criminals to try and flush me out?"

"Using Jump City criminals? Boy, they aren't just people I _found_, they're people I put into _place_. Antoine Desade, Bulletface Bryson, "Mao", even Arthur Void… They've been fighting each other without even realizing that it's by _my_ design. Void thinks he's in control out there when he's really a pawn in my game. I just wish Antoine were here to enjoy this, he's the only one of that group who'd be able to fully enjoy this killing, beside me. As for how long I've known you, well that's my little _secret_, isn't it? If you should survive this fight, _maybe_ then I'll tell you." Snapping his fingers however, Ripper points to the group bellow, his eyes glowing darkly red. All sense of mirth gone, he shouts with a guttural rage "KILL HIM!"

* * *

The first shot comes from Someone but Gar's already on the move. Nevermind the damn holoring, his secret is already revealed by Ripper whether or not they realize it. As a bird, he flies up into the ceiling rafters, avoiding machine gun fire as he twists and turns, looking for safety. Ripper, all the while giddy with psychotic glee, is content to watch this event unfold.

Flying about the room, spinning his body in and out of bird forms to escape hot bullets, Gar waits for the moment he's been begging for.

… click, click. Ammo has run out, time to reload.

Reappearing as a human in mid-drop, the now-green ex-Titan readies his claws for the fight.

…

Over the hump he goes, tearing into enemies left and right. Punch, punch, kick, leap over while using the man's weight to toss him at another group of incoming enemies. Shit, here they come with knives, ready to pierce him full of holes.

"Bring it!" Gar declares, removing a gift from Montoya from weeks prior. Pulling the pin, he tosses a stun grenade at some Two-Ton members, flying away as the device explodes. Certainly the grenade will have burned some of them but the impact is noticed by the dozen or so men who've collapsed, hands to their heads.

"You can't run forever! You'll have to kill them or else you'll NEVER win, _Watchman!"_ Ripper shouts, not pleased that Gar is "cheating" but still remains patient.

Someone shouts out some insults in rage, taking his revolver and firing it skyward. Of course, the drunk Irishman falls backward from "Dirty Harry's" gun, falling to the ground as more bullets shoot upward.

In all surprise, one of the bullets grazes the small hummingbird, sending the human form of Garfield falling twenty feet onto a group of thugs like a drunk stage diver at a Rammstein concert.

"GET HIM!"

…

"_At that point, things got dangerous. Not because I had a hundred or so guys ready to gut me and leave me for dead… not because their feet were stomping on me, trying to snuff out my life once and for all. Not even because Someone was demanding that he be the one to put a 44MAG round into my skull…. It was because Ripper's demand finally came true... God have mercy on me for what happened next."

* * *

  
_

As the pain from all the stomping feet becomes worse, blood starting to seep up from the scratch on his arm, Gar closes his eyes, gritting his teeth in anger. Through all the shouting and insults, he can still hear the cackling of that fucker on the rafters, praising this as the day Garfield "Beast Boy / Watchman" Logan finally meets his maker.

"_No… this can't be it… This can't be how I die."_ Looking deep within himself, he asks _"Is this really how you want Raven and the others to see you? To see you stomped to a bloody mess on the floor of some dirty hangar? Would Jinx want that? Would Kristine want that? Would MOM AND DAD WANT THAT?"_

Something in that last thought, his mind conceiving of his mother and father urging him on, their voices telling him to be strong, it sets up a horrible chain reaction. Opening his eyes to the crowd, he no longer holds simple green irises… but that green glow overtakes him once again, his vision turning jade and his hair and fangs growing much larger…

Bursting to his feet, knocking over several gang members in the process, the humanoid "Beast", a long-cry away from his former "Were-Beast" form, roars in hate at the world around him. Roaring at a frightened underworld of crime, roaring at Ripper's ecstatic face, and roaring at the thought of dying to these low-gene_ humans!_

Quick as a thunderclap, Gar snaps forth and grasps an Irishman by the throat with his jaws. Biting deep, blood spraying from the wounds like geysers, he throws the limp body at retreating criminals like old meat. Teeth barred and growling hard, he grows his claws out to nearly six full inches, slashing away at those who get in his way, biting into the heads, shoulders, faces, and throats of those he can't cut away…

And then the shouting of fear truly begins as men try to escape, running to doors that are now automatically locked by Ripper, the demon holding the control device in his hand as a gloat to those about to die.

No time for that as the whirlwind of green rage and blood-stained skin slashes through like a tornado of destruction, the claws of his right hand impaling a Two-Ton member as easily as a man punching through a wet paper bag. With another roar of rage, the Beast throws the impaled corpse at Ripper, the villain not even moving as the body bounces off him without a recoil in the slightest. In fact, he only seems to enjoy licking the blood of the dead off his chin with an oily, black tongue….

And while the seventy or so survivors find themselves horrified at the sight of their impending death, the animal before them reveals another card up his sleeve that only ratchets up the fear that much more. Roaring towards the roof, thousands of bats, bees (of all things), and other insects descend into the room. Faced with a son of Hell like Gar and the plague of flies and other creatures of the night, they try desperately now to climb the walls to the windows on the ceiling, anything better than this. Gunfire will not save them and Gar is beyond being their own personal Jesus.

One of those who's still standing and fighting is Someone, having already come to terms with the threat he faces. This was one kid he figured would be dangerous but never _this_ dangerous. Still, an old Irish trait is to stay and die fighting, even when he seems ludicrious to stay. "We who've never run from a clash of spears" as he'd quote from the famed Irish Brigade of old…  
Then again, with the walking disaster that Gar has become, this is one clash he won't survive. Sighting him in the crowd, Gar turns to the boss of the Irish gang, bees and bats flying about him like a vortex. Licking his teeth, caked in human viscera and blood, the Irishman's bullets run empty as Gar lunges forward, his mammoth hand grasping Someone's skull in it's grip, tearing it off with the slightest of effort.

… and as Ripper stares on with excitement, Gar proceeds to drink from the blood oozing out of Someone's skull with a _hunger_ befitting an animal of the jungle.

* * *

"_I'd like to say I couldn't control myself, that all of that slaughter was due to some beastial side of my animal nature. Even though that's technically the truth, the man behind the beast was still in full control, if not only just. Calling forth the animal swarms to my side wasn't conscious, that came from deep within, something spiritual and yet natural… But I took my time and pride in killing every single one of them. I tore off Someone's head imagining it was Deadshot's, drinking from it just like Vlad the Impaler from Romania. I killed every single one of them and Ripper stood there overjoyed at this… It's like he knew from the start I would do this…_

_But imagine my surprise to find him gone when the last victim had been butchered. He was nowhere to be seen, not a damn sight of that monster with two faces. All that remained was a hangar full of dead bodies, a green beast covered in human blood and organs, and the sound of police sirens closing in outside… He must've been the one to call them earlier but… _

_Even though I stood with all that gore about me, I stared at the pile of corpses. I couldn't run from this, there was no point in it. Not that I was afraid of being arrested (or even being caught by the Batman), I could just hide as a bug and avoid them forever. But this was my doing, my "willingly" committing murder. This was beyond the realm of sanity, even for self-defense, so I deserved to be put into their cage…_

_But before they kicked in the door, I noticed something amongst that carnage of broken bodies and disfigured human beings. She stood there in their midst, her pale skin and black lips smiling at me with a finger to her lips as though hushing me. It would only make sense that the one who inspired me to cross the line between non-lethality and murder would be there to tell me not to resist. After all, I'd given her enough souls to play with for one day, she didn't need me to join her, now did she?"

* * *

_A/N2: Well, there you go, a very violent look at Garfield's more human "Beast" form. To describe it, it's essentially a more human form of the cartoon version. Before that was just pure animal rage, a side of him he tried to repress. In this version (as had he on the island with Talia), he _willingly_ chose to become a Beast so he could defeat those in his way. Unfortunately, he's still not in full control of himself (evidenced by summoning the animals to help him) but he will in time. In the meanwhile, with the story now 50% done, we now change gears and see what this animal will do behind prison bars...

Trivia:  
- Hangar 18, both names for two US hangars that UFOologists are aware of... as well as a song by Megadeth.  
- 44Magnum, most powerful handgun in the world, Dirty Harry reference.  
- Rammstein, another part of the metal theme of this chapter.  
- Yes, another Death appearance (but still no speaking. She was supposed to be on the island with him at one point but I never wrote it).

Rhetorical: Not sure if I'll be doing a mini-arc. I'm not sure if I can do a "trial" because I'm not that great at the law system. Still, we'll probably see Bats and Gar have another talk... though I doubt it'll be civil.


	10. 99 Years in the Arkham Pen

A/N: Sorry for the delay, had some wicked car trouble yesterday during an oil change. In a strange, ironic way, it's a good thing I had to ride in the back of a tow truck. It gave me some inspiration for the dread of having to be driven somewhere you KNOW's gonna get you in trouble (not criminal for me, just bitchy kind). Gar's on his way to prison (but trust me, you won't see it coming). Before you ask why he's so calm in this chapter, consider what he says throughout. He doesn't plan on staying very long, as if he can escape at any time. This is true with his kidnap at Two Face's hand and his other adventures (through various drafts). Remember, Q's also trained him AND he's something of a Punisher these days. Take that into consideration as you read this.

* * *

**99 Years in the Arkham Pen...**

"_Well the fallout continues over the announcement that Garfield "Beast Boy" Logan was arrested in connection with the massacre at Hangar 18 of Gotham International Airport. Sources close to the Mayor and the Titans have reported that Mr. Logan had been released from the Titans back in October, citing differences in his "workplace" conduct. However, there have been no further comment regarding the allegation that he was responsible for the deaths of nearly one hundred of Gotham's criminal underworld…"_

Watching the news, as always, Question holds his chin under his hands with tense shoulders, his knuckles growing whiter as he compresses the bones together. Even with Huntress behind him, watching the news with him, his mind is a torent of information, trying to piece together the very solution to the question plaguing his mind: "Why?"

Jake Dewalt sits in his apartment, watching the CNN broadcast as well, sipping on a cup of coffee, his face frowning at the sight. Pictures of Garfield holding his information and mug shot line the screen, a sight that will certainly complicate matters in his section of the city. After all, no one in the city, including himself, even knew that the Watchman was even alive…

In her apartment, Rose Desade has her eyes glued to the set, the TIVO set to record as images of the crime scene and Gar's profile are shown. Unlike Question and Jake, a frown doesn't cross her face in the slightest. Quite the opposite given the wide-eyed, wide-grinning face, giddy with excitement of what "her" Gar did to all those"assholes." Behind her, Antoine Desade and Marin watch with a look bordering on relief and perhaps even a little hope.

…

Even with the news visible on the screen in the main office, through the frosted windows of the police chief, you can see Detective Sinclair in a heated argument with her superior. Then again, it doesn't take long for the chief to rise out of his seat, pointing angrily at the desk… After a moment's hesitation, a gun and a badge are presented on the oak table, it's former owner walking out in disgrace…

…

Void has brought Bulletface Bryson, Daiyu, and Mao to his office to personally watch the broadcast. While Void watches with a smirk, Mao and Bulletface watch impassively as this metahuman is put before the world as a message against further metahuman activity. The sight of the green man in an orange jumpsuit will certainly send the right image to anymore "would be" heroes. For Daiyu, however, the expression on her face is a bit more open. Unlike her last encounter with him on the streets of North Jump, the gleam in his eyes doesn't seem as bright. It would be wise to keep this animal caged up for good; he'll be very dangerous if someone like _that_ ever came back to Jump City.

Captain Boomerang, Firefly, and Madame Rouge sit around the small television in their warehouse's manager office, cigarettes shared between the French woman and Aussie.  
"About time they put one of those troublemakers in irons." Boomer notes, taking a long drag of his unfiltered smoke.

"Not soon enough if you ask me." Firefly retorts, wondering if the Bat had something to do with this…  
"At least we know what he's been up to. If he's been in Gotham this whole time, he would not have been the one to kidnap Doctor Light." Standing up, she turns the television off and tells her two remaining comrades "We have more important matters to worry about. He will not be coming back."  
…

There's no news report to be shown on the Titans screen as it stands smoldering on the wall. Robin's fiery temper seems to have gotten the best of him, judging from Starfire's scrared expression and his shouting match with Cyborg. Even after six months and three-thousand miles away, Gar has managed to ruin more of the Titans' credibility. And with protests beginning to grow around the city against them...

…

And yet, of all of the people who can say they've known Gar as a person, only one still continues to live in this world. For her, the sight of seeing Gar on TV, the sight of him in prison clothes, that same expression in his eyes from the day he woke up voiceless in that hospital… Levitating over her bed, recalling the images in her mind, a certain flood of emotions, a relatively new concept throughout her life, fills her with such uncertainty, such conflict.

"After all this time, Gar. After six months, you finally let us know you're alive… What made you do all of this, what drove you to kill those men?"

Fingering the letters of his journal, the young woman reads over the description of Kristine's death for any signs of clues. The degree of carnage and death seems so familiar…

* * *

"_I couldn't sleep, could you blame me? For the first time in my life, I was being shoved into the back of a police van, hands cuffed tight, with two men ready to fill my body with buckshot if I resisted. I'd seen dozens of people get thrown into this situation before while I looked from the other side of that door, knowing they'd be put away "for good"…_

_I don't recall much of what happened that first night. Most of it was simple processing, paperwork for the officers to fill out and so forth. I remember the camera room where they had me take my first mug shot though, I'll never forget that. I didn't care about the people watching me through that two-way glass, I just remember the hiss of that damned machine. Like the camera from The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, that long, grinding noise sent a chill through my body. Maybe that's the moment I realized that I wasn't going back to my alleyway; I was going to a prison cell in Wayne County lockup._

_There weren't too many prisoners waiting for me when they took me to my first holding cell. However, news must've been spread by sources inside the police force because those criminals were ready for me. They hounded me, taunted me, called me a bitch who they'd enjoy raping as soon as the guards turned their back. Dozens of insults thrown at me about my mother and father, one man saying he'd rape them too. Typical human scum, never thinking beyond their own, selfish needs…_

_I wouldn't have to worry about those pigs, I had to keep an eye out on anyone the Irish (or even Two Face) would use to get to me on the inside. I had heard from a guard that the Comissioner had made arrangements to keep me safe until after sentencing but in a corrupt city like Gotham, words are cheap. For those few weeks I remained at County, I passed the time any way I could. Exercise, eating the bad food, keeping the other criminals at bay by reminding them I could kill them and I wouldn't even need to change forms to do so. The only person I truly feared seeing at this point was the Bat. If Batman decided to come down there, I knew there'd be no way the guards could stop him. He sometimes does seem supernatural, the way he sneaks up on you and leaves before you can turn your head. If he wanted retribution or to remind me that I fucked up, I wouldn't have to even turn my head before he was in my face, telling me so in that deep, grizzly voice of his…

* * *

_

"_Weeks later, they dragged me into the court room to hear if I'd plead guilty or not. My taxpayer-paid public defender advised me on what I should do to try and get out of this. I'd have none of what he proposed, however, there wasn't any way I was getting out of this jam. My body was covered in their blood, the claw marks were animal in nature, and Ripper was nowhere to be seen._

_And according to the Prosecutor's Office, they were building a strong case against me using witnesses at the Mad Irish Pub that could link me to several activities there. Although not damning, there was potential evidence at the bookies linking me to an accessory to murder, Deadshot was even willing to testify that I attempted to kill him in exchange for a lighter sentence. Witnesses as that warehouse I bombed could identity a man similar to my height and skin-tone with the holoring as the man who detonated the bomb. Yeah, my attorney would try and defend me, but there was only way to do this."  
"Your honor," I announced as they asked me to plead. "Guilty by way of no contest."_

_The gathered members in attendance gasped a little at that, expecting I'd put up an argument at least. Stupid media, always influencing people for their own ratings.  
My attorney tried to stop me but, again, I'd have no part in his shit. "Your honor, may I make a request?"_

"_Since you're being so cooperative, what is it?"  
"I ask that you treat me no different than a common murderer. As in my confession, I admit involvement in the murder of every corpse in that building. I ask then that you take that into account as you render your sentence."  
At that statement, my defender decided to take a moment to talk with the judge. While I had indeed confessed to the crime, I hadn't told anyone until that moment that I would plead a No Contest to the charges. What I was banking on was that my useless attorney, along with my direct honesty, would buy me the ticket to the one place in Gotham I preferred most at this point.  
… Several minutes later and a gloomy looking lawyer later, I got the answer from the judge.  
"Garfield Logan, as you've plead No Contest in connection with the crime you were involved in and given your history of past vigilantism, I have decided to sentence you ninety-nine years in Blackgate Correctional Institution."  
"What?" I blurted out, probably shouldn't have done that though.  
Tapping on her gavel, she warned me with a glare I hadn't seen in an older woman in quite some time. "Mr. Logan, you asked me not to treat you any different than a common murderer. You may be a metahuman, as well as a former "superhero", but today you are no different than a common criminal. Also, you have not shown me any indication that you belong in a medical facility for any criminal-related illness. Therefore, you will spend the rest of your life inside a NORMAL prison facility. It is only due to your cooperation with these proceedings that I grant you a chance of parole at a time of Blackgate's choosing. This trial is adjurned!"_

_Ninety-nine years in Blackgate, not the place I wanted to go. I was hoping for Arkham pretty goddamn bad and here I was being dragged out in chains to go to the worst that Gotham's "sane" criminal populace called their final home.

* * *

_

"_I suppose you're wondering why I didn't just change into a bird or something, go free as it were. Well, there's two parts for that:  
1) Thanks to a generous donation from LexCorp, they now have a way of suppressing certain metahuman abilities. Apparently a former member of those Ultimen was genetically altered to be able to animal shift, just as I can, but they found a way to suppress it. I wonder if that was a government idea Q might've heard of?  
2) I had no reason to escape. I viciously murdered an entire hangar full of criminals because I wanted to, needed to. I'm sure that need is why I didn't feel so werewolfish as I had years ago in Jump. That was just animal instinct, this was a human desire. And until I can find a way to control it, to keep myself from slaying everyone around me, I need to stay inside. Safe from harming any more civilians…  
_

_So, here I was, being escorted in the back of a police cruiser on the way to Blackgate Correctional. Strange memories in that van that night, however many weeks it was since I murdered those men. It's hard to keep track of days when your days consist of prison bars, bad food, and endless boredom. Memories of home, my friends, my parents… Nights of sex with Kristine, the thrill of flying over a city and landing hard on an unsuspecting drug dealer below, and the simple joys of being able to order a decent cup of a tea… It could be a very long time before I get to feel those things again as a free man…  
_

_Raven… she'd be pissed, I knew that much. Six months I didn't bother to call her or write her, let her know I was alive. No doubt she'd destroy something with her powers, maybe the big TV in the living room. No point worrying about that, right? I can't go back there even if I wanted to.

* * *

_

_Due to my high-profile case, the prison took me in alone with no other inmates. This meant processing, forced showers, and introductions were all done with me as the central target of their irritations. Probably planned by the Justice Department as a means of retribution for causing their "fair" city so much global scrutiny (and I wasn't even a citizen OF Gotham)._

_Oh brother did they yell, telling me "Get used to this place because your ass ain't EVER _

_leaving!" and things like that. I won't say I wasn't scared, oh hell yeah I was. But I didn't want to show it, didn't want to cave in this soon in my stay. Prison is prison, you don't go because you like it, you go because you need to. And I knew what I "needed" to do, despite what the warden told me: I needed to go to where I'd learn to control myself, not learn to murder more wild dogs._

_I apologize for skipping around so much, it's been awhile since that night back in September. They walked me through Gen-Pop, trying to raise the tension I suppose. Damn, I haven't heard that much cursing and threats in years. Men of all walks of life, all colors, all creeds, and all nationalities yelling at me that they'd do this to me, get me with that, stab me and leave me bleeding in the drains… And for the first time in quite a long time, I found myself smirking at the though. I looked up to them, watching as their arms flipped me off and grasped the cells like gorillas in cages. With that smirk, I whispered to myself an old quote I read in a comic once:  
"I'm not locked in here with you… you're locked in here with ME"_

_Cell 423, E-block, home to the "infamous" "Hundred Man Murderer" of Jump City. They pushed me in, nearly stumbled on the way in. By the time I turned around, I heard the sound of some electrical gears and a sound of cell bars slamming tight.  
"Welcome to your new home, "hero." You're gonna be here for a long fuckin' time."_

_Didn't bother to retort, I heard enough horror stories of men who resisted and got beaten nearly to death for it. No, this would be my home for however long I chose. A month? A year? A lifetime? However long it took to get in control, to master the animal within… But first, I had one priority that needed to be fulfilled: I had to get out of Blackgate.

* * *

_A/N2: See? Gar didn't go to Arkham, like everything assumed, he went to Blackgate. The judge has ruled him sane enough to go to regular jail (just like Bane, Catwoman, and various others) and it's NOT where he wanted to go. Still, I doubt he's going to be any less violent at Blackgate... but will he survive this? His animal-gifted powers are gone, he'll need to rely solely on his training and his human attributes. Still, I thought it was nice to see some of the old Jump City alumnus and gauge their reactions for a brief moment. Shock, anger, confusion, and (in Rose's case) love... funny people they are.

Trivia:  
- 99 Years in Arkham Pen (a reference to the verdict in Johnny Cash's "Cocaine Blues")  
- The Cadmus reference refers to that Wonder Twin "clone" from Justice League.

Rhetorical: How long do you think Gar will last in Blackgate before he shipped off to the nuthouse?


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: The stay in Blackgate continues and certain themes (thematic and literary) will be explored throughout. So far we're still in Gar's perspective but notice how time seems to be slipping as it were, unable to tell how long it's been or what the date is. And keep an eye on Gar's continued "evolution" as it were in character. He's going to be changing fairly quickly but for obvious reasons. By the way, one of my longest reviewers will be happy as hell with this chapter. See if you can spot the inside reference with the dialogue ;)  


* * *

**99 Years in the Arkham Pen...**

"_I'd like to say a made a few friends in Blackgate, really endeared myself to the other inmates, and made "lasting connections" with some of the worst scum that Gotham had to offer. I don't want to make it sound that my entire life, especially those days in Blackgate, was nothing but a bitter taste in my mouth. No, I had a hell of a time in that wretched building. As for everyone else though, well, that was a different story…_

_The first person to try and make a name for himself was one of Someone's old runnin' buddies. Some Irish wise-guy who was in the middle of his ten-year stint in Blackgate for aggravated assault decided to start some shit with me in the lunch line. No, I'm not going to sit here and tell you I pulled a "Rorschach", I'm nothing like him. For one thing, I'm not a character on a piece of paper: I'm alive and I intend to stay that way._

"_Hey, you!" he shouted at me from across the lunchroom. The guards at the doors didn't seem to mind as he got up, pointing at me. "I know you, green bean!"_

_I minded my own business, meeting eyes with an overweight, graying-haired cook with more grease on his apron than three Italian mobsters. This wasn't going to end good, for all of us._

"_You're the sombitch who killed me boys for the fun of it, didn't ya? You got somethin' to say for it, huh?"_

_He closed the gap, grabbing me by the shoulder and turning me to make eye contact. By this point, the guards STILL haven't moved. They weren't moving because of fear, that much was certain, but I think that this would serve as a good "warning" to me, being an ex-hero and all. Still, I remained calm as I looked into his green eyes. "I'm hungry."_

_His eye twitched like criminals in the movies, funny actually when I think about it. He punched away my tray, demanding I look him in the eye and tell me straight why I killed his friends. I didn't need to turn away from him, I'd been staring him eye to eye the entire time._

_So, I leaned in close and asked him "You want to know why?"_

_He looked up at me, bracing for me to throw a punch or something like that. "Yeah, tell me why!"_

"_Because I'm an animal!" I roared at him, lunging forward and biting his eyebrow above his left eye. I didn't have my animal senses anymore, their daily dose of suppressant removed that ability, but my teeth were still sharp enough to bite an inch or two into his flesh, tearing out a good chunk of the skin and part of the muscle below._

_And damn did he howl like a little bitch. Screaming, clutching at his forehead, recoiling as the other prisoners around us took a step back. All around the room were the sounds of men with stunned words at that "insane" shit I just pulled. Fuck them, fuck each and every one of them. And fuck those two guards who finally came over and clubbed ME for "starting" that fight._

"_Get him into solitary! Three days will teach this "hero" a lesson!" I heard one of them shout as they started to drag me out. I left them an image to remember though as they dragged me through the doors. With that man's skin still in my teeth, grinning with the blood dripping off my mouth, I made sure each of them could see my wild, green eyes. Better to have them fear you inside than respect you.

* * *

_

"_Solitary confinement… it's like living in my old garage in Jump City but without the option to leave. Lonely, depressing looking, just you, the walls, and your mind to keep you company. Plenty of time to spend working on the dilemma of controlling your inner powers. While you can train your physical body, your mind will need some more training if you ever want to be a master of your own fate._

_So, those three days, I took to boxing as long as I could. Punching, moving around the cell despite the darkness, trying to maintain sanity while my mind went into overdrive. How do you control something that's a part of you and yet so alien that it might not even be YOU in the first place? From the few times I've been in that form, I can tell it's anger driven a perhaps a little bit based on a need to survive. But as to where the ability to control animals and why I feel a need to viciously murder my victims is still beyond me… But I have all the time in the world, don't I?_

_Inside solitary though, I tried to do some exercises Question taught me during one of our discussions of Zen philosophy and meditation. I took a few hours each day forming a lotus position and trying to zone out as it were, focusing inward in an attempt to pass through the endless hours of boredom without even noticing it. To be honest though, I'm nowhere near as good at meditation as Q is however. It's hard to focus inward when even the stillness of the air seems as loud as a jumbo jet."

* * *

_"_The next incident took place the day after I left solitary. Seems some of the men inside hadn't heard the whole story about me biting off that mick's eyebrow because I found myself in the shower with four very, pardon the pun, cocky inmates with something VERY dirty on their minds._

"_They say you're that guy who killed all them gangsters in the hangar. That true, boy?"_

_Another man of a thousand muscles and not a brain to be found. Still, unlike the Irishman, this guy was large enough to pose a threat even to me… "Yeah, that's me."_

"_Gotta be one tough motherfucker for that kind a trouble." His words were every bit as suspicious as the way he was eyeing up my ass. I don't have anything to hide with my body, I've done quite a job with it considering how ropey I used to be. But I didn't enjoy having some rapist stare me down with intention to demonstrate how he committed his crime.  
"The toughest."_

_The other three came into the picture now, moving in from other sides of the shower room. This was a setup, judging from the ways they kept looking at each other with those sly grins. A four-on-one attack, no guards, and inside one of the scariest rooms on Earth: A prison shower.  
"Oh? Really? Well, pardon me, but we'd like to see just how tough that ass of your's really is!"_

…

_Their would-be attack failed before they even got their filthy, human hands on me. The two shower heads at my sides poured out some VERY hot water, temporarily stopping them for a moment… but not long enough to save them… I don't remember just what entirely I did to them but I know at one point I punched that raptist in the balls so hard, it might've actually jammed into his lower stomach. The guards came in, as usual, and clubbed me a few times and dragged me out of the shower… but not after three of the attackers needed burn treatment, extensive dental work, and the rapist needing a pint of blood removed from one of his ruptured balls._

So, I was sent off to the solitary cell again. This time, I wouldn't be staying in that hellhole for three days but a full TWO WEEKS for my self-defense. The warden was beginning to wonder just how I survived on the outside since I decided to make "an enemy" out of everyone on the inside, especially the guards and the warden himself. Just when you think you've been humiliated enough by being arrested, these pigs have to remind you all that crimefighting you've done was for nothing if they still look at you as a criminal. I know it's not their job to show compassion to criminals inside but they seem to hate metahumans just as much as I hate drugs, criminals, and Ripper himself. But what are you going to do in prison, complain?

* * *

"_It wasn't all trouble for me though. Sometime after my first month in Blackgate, I met a fellow metahuman that seemed to be in trouble just like mine. He didn't kill a hundred men but it seems I wasn't the only example set by Gotham's Justice Department."_

In the gym, under close guard, more than usual given Gar's recent behavior with the inmates, the inmates are busy working out on taxpayer-paid exercise machines, treadmills, and watching state-paid television. A brief escape from the monotony of cell-life, one that everyone seems to be taking advantage of to it's fullest. In the corner, with the other inmates giving him a wide berth, Gar stands with gloves on his hands, banging away on a weight bag. On the radio, Alice in Chains song "Junkhead" blares with it's heavy riff, mirroring Gar's inner rage as he slams the boxing bag with all of his might. Unlike his time in the alleys of Jump and Gotham, his body seems to have developed even further. Already toned to begin with, the daily exercise and self-defense practice has truly started to make him look ripped.

"Need a spotter?"

Looking away from the bag, Gar notices this new arrival greets him more with a passive smile than an outright, alterior-motive one most of the other inmates seem to sport. Those blue eyes only seem to reflect a sort of kindness Gar once used to have but will he be on the level? "What's the deal?"

"Deal? How about you hit it, then I'll hit it?" Running a hand over his short, brown locks of hair, he admits "Then again, considering how intense you look, I'd say it's better if I just hold the bag and let you go crazy."

Pausing a moment, sizing up this wiry, but by no means skinny, newcomer, Gar relents "… Sure. Try and hit me and I'll use your face as the bag."

Taking his place behind the heavy leather bag, he braces as Gar's heavy shots dig deep into his shoulder. "Damn, you hit like a ton of bricks."

No reply, only a few more heavy right crosses with an occasional left jab. But after a moment or two, Gar finally asks without breaking stride (or his muted glare) "So, who are you anyway?"

Brightening up a bit, the man answers with a raised eyebrow and a smile "You don't know."  
An eyebrow of his own raised though not missing a punch, Gar shakes his head slightly "No, I don't. So tell me, who the fuck are you?"

"That's just it. On the outside, I used to be known around Gotham as "YDK", a.k.a. "You don't know" because I used to be able to move in, make my kill, and move out without anyone ever knowing."

"Cute." Gar remarks, hitting the bag once so hard it jolts YDK off his toes a bit.

"The state give me a different name but you can call me Peers. It's my ex's last name as well, we'll keep the first names to ourselves."

"YDK sounds better. So, you come to spot me because you're bored or you getting' paid by the homeboys over there?"

A grin despite the heavy impacts, YDK suggests "You're a metahuman yourself, right? I figured our kind should stay together, you know?"

Stopping, Gar leans out of his stance and glares at YDK. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Releasing the bag, YDK informs his new acquaintance "On the outside, I used to be able to turn invisible. It's how I got so good at killing people. Problem is I don't think the Bat liked me killing gang members and they caught me after awhile. I heard you got caught after killing the Irish and Two-Ton gangsters. So, I figured as we're both metahumans, and we both hate the criminal element, it would be wise if we worked together."

….  
Is he serious? Can this guy be trusted? Is this just another trick to… "Your turn."

"To what?"

Stepping around the bag, Gar advises YDK "Your turn to punch. If you're gonna be around me, better make sure you can handle your own."

* * *

"_The only thing about the entire time in Blackgate that drove me nuts was the endless bouts of boredom. Unlike the outside world, I couldn't just take a walk, fly over a city, or just enjoy a view from on high atop a skyscraper. No, all I had to do to occupy my time was stare at the walls, exercise, and contemplate everything in my mind's universe as it were… In a word: Boring._

_It took weeks before I got mail of any sort other than mail from my lawyer. He kept promising he'd issue appeals to have me moved to Arkham due to my assaulting the other inmates in such "barbaric" manners as I had. They wouldn't move me, not without some serious pull with the judge and me pulling some dangerous shit that DIDN'T get me killed by the guards._

_Still, the first bit of sunshire, even if it wasn't too thrilling, came from Mr. Jacob Alphonse Dewalt. He wrote me a funny little letter about how Detective Sinclair had crashed his "home office" one night in August; a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 bourbon in one hand and a fist in the other. Her release from the police force for "negligence" regarding my exposed activities with the JCPD had ended up in her dismissal. Apparently the police chief out West didn't take too kindly to the fact I helped clean up some of their "fair" city but not kind enough to cut her some slack._

_Still, it was nice to know some of my old contacts were still alive. Without a job, she came to him looking for work as a possible partner, despite Jake still having a steady girlfriend. That couldn't have been good for tensions at his house but that opportunist, I know damn sure he saw the potential profit to be made from having two keen detectives on a case rather than one.  
And he also was kind enough to let me know that the Desades were on the defensive against a combined Bulletface/Triad attack. That little tidbit brought some sunshine into my clouding heart, knowing that those tools under Ripper were going to tear each other apart over nothing. What good is money if you're dead or, worse, locked inside like me?

* * *

When the call for "lights out" came, I took my place on the bed and stared at the dark ceiling of my small cell. Not much sound in E-block those nights, sleep was a joy that not even the "great state of Gotham" could rob us, even though the occasional rattle on the jail cells from passing guard batons reminded us it was only a temporary escape._

_Strange as it sounds, I did find solace in one strange aspect of the night life in this prison: I wasn't the only one who woke up in the middle of the night from screaming nightmares. A few others, mainly in the rows below me and one upstairs from me, woke up once in awhile in a panic, screaming at some dreamed-up night terror. Though I can only guess what their's was, I know exactly what mine always were…_

_Four times a week or so, I'd wake up screaming because I could see myself on that island out west or in that hangar, in my Beast form, tearing apart human beings as easily as a child ripping apart an old doll. Their screams of agony muffled in my ears, their hands outstretched for mercy as I tore them off and gorged on their flesh and blood… And sometimes it wasn't just soldiers or criminals I'd murder. Once in awhile, I'd murder Jinx… I'd murder Krisine… Dear God, I'd even murder Raven… And seeing my hands rip apart the three I've loved most… well, you can just imagine what that does to your reputation of being an animal. Especially when you hear people talking about that "roaring" sound coming from cell 423 of E-block.

* * *

_A/N: So Gar's made a friend inside Blackgate but certainly nowhere near as many enemies. I bet you were expecting a Rorschach attack at that chow hall, weren't you? As far as evolution, Gar still seems to be normal (for now) but I'm wondering just how deep this experience will seep in. I already believe him to have PTSD from the events of this story (nightmares, alcoholism, zoning off while thinking of bad events, etc) but this is only going to make it worse.

Trivia:  
- Gar's first attack is based off the Rorschach scene in Watchman during his prison stay (as well as the flashback of him biting a kid's face).  
- Trying to meditate (from Q's advice) is a reference to the Zen-like personality Q exhibited in the comics near the end.  
- "You Don't Know?" a reference to long-time reader/reviewer "you don't know". Took some of the advice for his personal OC (from a couple a years ago) and applied it. He'll be back in the next chapter.  
- Gar's second attack in the shower is a reference to His Divine Shadow's "In Vain Doth Valour Bleed" Gundam fanfic involving similar circumstance. GREAT Zeon read.

Rhetorical:  
Like you wouldn't have nightmares if you killed over a hundred (well, really 150 given the Island chapter) people.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: The last Blackgate chapter isn't an action chapter but an emotional mind-fuck (you'll understand halfway through). Gar gets some good news about his current home (considering he's about to trade up as it were). Still, he's not as tough as he might realize, as you'll see, and it's only a matter of time before reality sets in on your life and the mistakes you've committed.  


* * *

**99 Years in the Arkham Pen...**

"_They never really tell you just how disorienting prison life can be. Not from a social standpoint but from an inability to tell just what the hell day it is. The only reason I knew Thanksgiving was close was because I saw snow outside of my window but I hadn't heard about any Christmas events going down at the prison. Not that it really mattered but after two months, I think, of being in Blackgate, I was having a harder time telling just what day it was… or what month… or possibly which year. It's not like there was much difference between the day you're in and the one you just went through._

_During this time, I spent more and more time around YDK, the former hitman for hire that was supposedly like me in being a metahuman. He was the only person in Blackgate that didn't seem to overly mind his incarceration… either that or he's just flat out insane. Still, having a second pair of eyes to keep people away would prove useful in a prison full of criminals just WAITING to get ahold of me. Like it or not, I'd need to keep him around despite that cheery nature of his._

_I'll admit, he did come in handy one time in the chow hall. Two recently incarcerated Irishmen tried to pull a stunt not too dissimilar from their friend's action months prior. They got up into my face, saying I wouldn't be so tough with TWO of them beating me down. Once again, those good for nothing "guards" didn't bother to even look in our direction._

_Well, words got a bit heated, the rest of the criminals in line got bitchy at the holdup, and the Irish would have none of it. One of them jumped me first, using his tray like a club I suppose. I managed to block it first but the other got a cheap shot on my exposed, left-side ribs. The melee finally got the attention of the guards but they didn't get to break up the fight right away, YDK did that for us. How? He earned himself three days in solitary for it but apparently he had some jury-rigged knife inside his pocket. Remember, told you he was an assassin for hire. Well, he shanked that cheap shot in the spine and I put the other one through the glass buffet counter… Yeah, three days in solitary for the both of us but at least he bothered to stab the Irish instead of me._

_When we got out of solitary, however, things around the prison seemed a little different. The men in the shower gave the two of us a little extra distance, they didn't bother to shout insults when we walked by their cells, and they damn sure left us alone during chow time. I'm not one for feeling a "brotherhood" with my "fellow metahuman kind" but there was a certain sense of pride in seeing the "humans" so wary of us. Sure we were only two men, and twenty could defeat us I'm sure if they wanted to, but we were proving just how scary two non-humans could really be.

* * *

_"_Yes, I've come to spend more time in solitary than most normal humans do in their entire stay in American prison systems. And I'm sure someone out there is saying "If I didn't commit these crimes in the first place, they wouldn't have come after you" or something to that effect. You can kiss my ass, these "humans", more like mad dogs, would take advantage of me in FAR WORSE ways if I didn't defend myself. Despite the occasional fight, I had noticed many of the inmates chose to stay away from me as my stay in Blackgate continued. No one wants to end up in the infirmary with missing flesh or broken bones, now do they?_

_But it wasn't just the criminals I had an issue with: It was the guards of the prison. It's not like it wasn't hard to poke fun at my expense, I DO have green skin don't forget. They'd taunt me, provoke me, tell me things like "How's it hangin' today, hero?" and "Hey hero, how's it feel to be a faggot, wearin' that spandex and shit? Make you feel like a big boy, Beast Boy?" After killing those men outside of my garage in 2007, I never wanted to be considered a "hero" again… so I've since come to hate that word more and more everytime someone calls me that. "Heroes" are the ones who rush into burning buildings and save people WITHOUT using their superpowers to blow out the flames or teleport through the floor. The firemen, the… police officers, all the ones who put themselves through hell to save their fellow man because it's the right thing to do, not because it makes headlines. I heard of a few "heroes" working with the Justice League just to make a few headlines, make a little profit, and it made me sick. I'm not a hero, I'm a damn animal living in a "human" world._

_After Thanksgiving, I know it was because we got turkey before this happened, I got a lucky break from my lawyer. He said he was able to get the appeal for a transfer to Arkham going, that we might be able to convince the judge that Blackgate wasn't "suitable" for my "needs". This was heaven to my ears, I'll tell you that. Blackgate was becoming a sore on my ass that just got bigger and bigger with each week and attempted rape and/or murder. I wanted, no, NEEDED to get out of there… And my luck didn't stop there…"

* * *

_Today was special indeed for Garfield Mark Logan. Not only does the lawyer have the ball rolling on his transfer but it seems his attorney's paying him a special visit to fill him in personally. So, for the first time in his entire stay in Blackgate, Gar finds himself being led through the hallway that'll lead to the Visitor's Room.  
"What's today's date?" Gar asks, masking the slight bit of excitement in his heart. When you're stuck inside a boring place like Blackgate, a talk with a visitor might as well be a blessing from God himself. Anything to relieve the endless hours of repetition in this god awful joint.  
Escorting the heavily chained prisoner, he checks his watch, offhandedly remarking "December 4th."

"2008?"

"Yeah, 2008. You haven't been here _that_ long yet, _hero_."  
"Hmm… thought it was late November…"

Nearing the doors, the female officer reminds Gar "You have ten minutes to speak with your visitor. You will be monitored at all times by a guard and will be removed if you choose to violate the rules. When your time is up, you will leave your chair and follow your guard back to your cell."

Nodding slightly, Gar would rather spend his time hearing about his case than these same old rules. Finally, he's led to the chair, taking a look up and…  
"….Raven?"  
As vivid as reality and perhaps just as real, the Titans' resident goth looks back at Garfield with the phone to her ear but eyes starting to glimmer just a bit from… _tears?_  
Speaking into his own receiver, Gar asks with a bit of life unseen in months "Raven, sweet Jesus, tell me it's you. Tell me it's not some damn prank the guards are pulling on me!"  
"Gar… I…"  
Offering a smile, something his face hasn't produced in months, he puts a hand to the glass. "Wow, how lucky am I? I might be able to goto Arkham AND I get to see a desperately needed sight for sore eyes."  
"Gar, Robin doesn't know I came. We don't have long, ok, so let's make this worthwhile, ok?" Her own hand up to the glass, almost desperate for his touch, she asks "Are you holding up ok? I heard you got into some trouble…"  
"Trouble? C'mon Rae, that's my middle name." A sense of mirth, perhaps more out of shock and joy than normal attitude, overcomes the former vagrant vigilante. "I'm a marked man on the inside and I've been making everybody famous as it were."  
"The one guard told me you've been doing time in solitary every other week or so."  
"Self-defense is a crime in America apparently. I defended myself in that hangar, got myself a 99-year sentence. Defend myself in here, I get solitary. It's amazing how this world works."

Holding back some words, trying to collect herself despite the urge to, well, Raven doesn't do that, does she? "Gar, things have been getting really bad back home. The city's residents are protesting against the Titans and the Mayor's office pretty hard. They even canceled the Democratic Convention back in August because of it."  
Nodding, Gar lets her continue. She needs this more than he does at the moment judging from that one wet spot coming out of her eye.  
"Robin's not even Robin anymore, he's "Nightwing." Ever since he found out about that hangar incident, he's been getting stricter by the day. Hell, he might as well be Batman by now… I've been trying to avoid the Titans whenever I can unless a mission comes up because of the way he's become this gung-ho commander. Hell, I've been talking more with your friends Question and Jake than I have been with Starfire or Argent… And now I've been helping them and Jake's old friend ex-Detective Sinclair with their P.I. work and I'm sure if…"  
"Rae, you're absolutely beautiful."  
The brief, though surprisingly strong compliment from Gar halts the stream of emotion that had been spewing forth from the woman before him. Eyes wide, unsure if she even heard it, she asks "What did you say?"  
Still holding his hand in place, he tells her straight out "Ever since I first met you in 2000, you've been the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. You don't even realize just how beautiful you are. I'm sorry you have to hear it like this, in this place and all, but I'm glad I got to see you in person one more time. You're the only person to have come visited me in the time I've been here…"  
"… do you mean it? What you said?"  
This has to be more than she can handle, better treat this delicately. "I mean every word. If I've ever made you feel anything other then I'm deeply sorry, ashamed even. Rae, don't let anyone ever tell you you're not pretty or attractive or anything else. You're simply beautiful, especially to these old eyes."  
Holding back but a brief moment, she dares to ask "But, Gar… I've read your journal and all… What about Kristine?.. What about Jinx?"  
Seeing that their time is almost up, Gar suggest "If you really want to know, do your soul-self thing tonight. Light's out at nine o'clock, ok? Enter my mind just like the last time and I'll show you everything, alright? It wouldn't be right airing it out like this for everyone to hear."

"No, it wouldn't."  
"That's right. Hey, do me a favor then, would you? I won't ask you to visit me again but could you write me? I don't get to read anything other than the occasional letter from the lawyers. I'd like to know someone out there still cares."  
A smile finally crosses her face, matching his own. A look of sadness that has only abated for a brief moment in time. "I will. By the way, I managed to let the warden allow you a few books I've brought. Figured you'd like to read something other than those "old books", hmm?"  
"You're the best, Rae. Beautiful and brains, what I fool I was to lie up in here and not next to you."  
At that comment, a rush of heat flushes through her cheeks at the comment but disappears as the guard stands behind Gar.  
"Well, Rae, send me those letters, ok? I'll see ya around sometime." Winking, he offers his two-finger salute "Bye."  
"Goodbye, Gar…"

* * *

"_Back at my cell, I was hit with an uncertain amount of emotions. The books she'd given me were an odd variety to say the least. One was a thick encyclopedia on various forms of philosophies, ranging from Nietzsche to Marxism. The second book, perhaps the most useful to me in the long-run, was a book of various languages, a book that might have been in her private collection given the familiar smell. Dozens of modern languages from Portuguese to Mandarin Chinese, all with basic conversational text for learning. Perhaps that strange sense of humor compelled her to buy the third book as it was a mixed volume featuring "The Jungle Book" chronicles AND various "Tarzan" stories. And finally, last but certainly not least, she gave me a photo album with photos of her, Jake, Detective Sinclair, and even Question a few times…_

_The last book really brought out the sense of grief I'd been storing in me since killing those men in that hangar so long ago. It wasn't just the smiles on their faces that got to me, it was the sense of what I'd been missing during my time in Gotham… Of all the people in Jump, these four were probably the only four who actually missed me (as in Garfield "Watchman" Logan rather than Garfield "Beast Boy" Logan). Not that Raven smiled much in her pictures but I've known how to tell when she's happy, even when she doesn't show it… I'm not afraid to admit it but it was the first time in quite a long time I allowed myself a good cry. Could you really blame me?  
_  
_Stranger to hear that Robin had changed names to "Nightwing" than to hear Ms. Sinclair becoming a private detective. Robin, the "Boy Wonder", now flying around in God knows what kind of bright ass, flamboyant costume. I didn't like the spandex jokes from the guards but I'm glad I gave that up the day I set off on my own into North Jump. You don't need to look like a traffic light to stop crime and you damn well don't need a fancy name either. Still, if he wants to be a drill instructor with the Titans, so be it. He'll come to see that sooner or later, the more aggressive and authoritative you become with kids just barely out of high school, the more they'll wanna fly off on their own…. Just like my beautiful little raven.

* * *

_

"_The day after Christmas, I received some great news from my lawyer. Apparently, at the urging of a reputable billionaire of Gotham City, who happens to be on the advisory board for Arkham's parole board, helped push through the order to have me moved from Blackgate to Arkahm Asylum. I wouldn't have to stare at the dreary walls of Blackgate anymore… I'd instead have to look at the bleak walls of a sanitarium and deal with vicious psychopaths and the insanities of humanity on a scale far beyond mere criminal vice. It was, afterall, the proverbial "nuthouse"._

_So, when the day finally came, I bid my farewells to the few people I did get along with enough to know their names, especially YDK. I admit, I miss that weird hitman for hire but I'm a believer in fate; we'll meet again someday, I know it. With my four books, fragile sanity, and renewed hope in mastering my inner demons, I was taken from the walls of the criminally sane and driven into the halls of humanity's worst case of psychosis since the days of the Third Reich…  
… I wonder if they realize just how bad a mistake that really was?

* * *

_A/N2: Well, here we go. Gar's getting his transfer, thanks in part to one of Gotham's most wealthiest businessmen (I saw in an episode how Bruce turned down Harley's parole from Arkham, used that here.) Still, bet you didn't expect to see Raven so soon, huh? That was the heart of this chapter that I couldn't WAIT to write. The two tend to have so much chemistry in this saga that it's almost heartbreaking to have them together like this for so brief a time. Still, I wonder what he showed her in his mind that night... Not like it's hugely important, but me just musing on the inner minds of my own characters. Still, that scene had some relation to me own life (not in prison mind you) so I can empathize with him... and if you can empathize with your characters, ladies and gentlemen, it means you're doing a good job at writing!

Trivia:  
- The first of Gar's two books were books I saw at Barnes/Noble (should get them sometime)  
- Yup, Robin is now Nightwing in this story.

Rhetorical: Any of you ever have one of those Gar/Rae moments like this? I had mine the first time I saw my last girlfriend after three years of absence... it's a great feeling if you've ever gone through it.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Took two tries to make this work, deviating from my original concept a bit (nothing you'd miss) in order to bring out some details. I wanted Arkham to have contrast in comparison to Blackgate, at least in Gar's section of the asylum. You'll understand as you read but it'll be up to him to start the trouble. We meet 2 established Batman villains in this chapter (and reference a few others) so you fans of the Bat will be happy.

**99 Years in the Arkham Pen...**

**

* * *

**"_Even though I was a model prisoner, most of the time, at Blackgate, Arkham's security took no precautions with me. I tried telling them that I wasn't planning on escaping but one of them mentioned the Joker as using that line before. So, after pulling me out of the transport van, they strapped me into a cold, imposing table-like restrainer, my hands and feet clamped in with steel joints. They wheeled me down the long, rusty corridors like Hannibal Lector or something, why I'm not too sure of…_

_How people escape from this place is beyond me. All the security cameras, door sensors, and roaming security guards, you'd think this place would have a higher standard of detainment. Then again, nothing in this world is full-proof as Q would say so I'll leave that thought beyond me. I'm just happy they didn't stick me in with the crazies, which would've been trouble. Not that I'm prejudiced but I'd beat those mentally handicapped felons to a bloodless pulp._

_As they took me down the halls, I saw a video recording from the warden, whose name I didn't register at the time. Telling me about the facility, how I'd never get out, and that only complying with my doctors would I ensure a potential release? Jeez, you'd almost think he was Heinrich Himmler when he put it like that. The old "work will set you free" quote sounded right at home here at Arkham just as it must've felt to those people in the camps back in World War II."

* * *

_"Hey, check it out!" one of the inmates announces from behind a large, thick glass window facing the walkway. Evil grin on his face, he stares onward with dark intentions as the green ex-hero is pulled to his final destination. Then again, his smile fades slightly as the jade-colored eyes of Garfield Logan turn and stare back into his own, bringing a tingling sensation of fear down his spine. He might've done well to hear stories from Blackgate, wouldn't he?

Looking to his right, Gar notices a few more "crazies" but more silent than before. They only cast him a glance before returning to their minds. To his left, he sees a few more nameless souls but a few start to stand out. One man, his room covered in papers of days and months, humming to himself as he keeps track of today's significant events.  
Another on the left is the sight of a horribly disfigured man, scars of former cuts adorning his entire body. Manic eyes look out of deep sockets, offering a taunt to the passing vigilante. "I have a special mark _just for you_…"  
To his right, a woman of pale green skin also hums to herself, tending to a small pot of ruby-red roses. Her eyes turn towards the vigilante, nodding politely with a smile on her face, a slight wave to her hand as he passes.  
"Who are these people?" Gar asks the guards escorting him. "Tourist, remember?"  
"Supervillains, or at least that's how the newspaper puts it. They're all just as crazy as you" a guard remarks, taking a sip from a silver flask.  
"Who said I'm crazy?" he asks innocently, noting the look of agitation on this one guard's face.  
"The Gotham City Department of Justice, that's who. You should be in a gas chamber right now but, for now, you'll have to settle for the nuthouse."

* * *

"If I'm in the nuthouse then I might as well be a pistachio. At least they're green."

"Be quiet, whackjob." The guard warns with a brief tap on his MP5's stock, a brief reminder to comply.

At his appointed cell, the glass door opens and Gar's restraints are released. Pressed into the small room, the glass shuts behind him with the cart pulling back.  
"Cozy." Gar remarks without a sense of humor to his tone.

"It's too good for you, murderer." The guard snaps before laying down the rules. "Don't rile up the other inmates and we won't have to put you into deep isolation. Take your pills when ordered, eat your food in it's entirety, and DON'T fuck with any of our men. You can disappear just as easily in Arkham as Blackgate, got it prisoner?"

Turning to the guard in his off-gray jumpsuit, Gar stares straight into his eyes, very Lector-like indeed, and replies "Inescapably."

* * *

"_Arkham wasn't nearly as loud as Blackgate was. Most of the other inmates seemed to keep to themselves as though they were living in their own private, little worlds. I was still blessed enough to have been allowed the books Raven gave me but the cell was still a cell. A man can only exercise, attempt to meditate, and read before he goes a little crazy. _

_I didn't imagine that the famous "Arkham Asylum", renowned for it's collection of twisted, criminal psychopaths, would be so… quiet? I always imagined the hallways would be crowded with screaming, drooling mental patients, barking and swearing in French that they were Napoleon Bonaparte or the reincarnation of Judas Iscariot. Not that it was bad, mind you, but everyone seemed as though things were perfectly normal. Perhaps all the years of watching horror films and hearing stories about old sanitariums had built my expectations up… Then again, the eerie "calmness" of it all, coupled with Arkham's supposed high break-out rates, had me on edge just a little bit. So, I did what any normal person would do: I decided to ease the tension by trying to make first contact."  
_

"Hey." Gar offers through the window at the man across the way.  
"Hello yourself, green one." The reply echoes back in the curious form of a man with orange hair and one of the most angular faces Gar has ever seen. His reply, spoken with a sense of upbeat curiosity, persuades Gar to probe further.

"Why you here?"  
Still sitting on his bed, elbows on his knees with his hands intertwined, the older villain suggests "Why are _any_ of us here? Did we deserve to be captured or did we _willingly_ allow ourselves to be?"

Eyebrow raised, Gar's answer is as confused as his own facial expression "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You asked why I'm here so I responded with a riddle. Why should any of us be here when each one of us insist we are sane as the people who claim we are not so?"

Sitting cross-legged before the glass, Gar suggests "Philosophical, aren't you?"

"Philosophy isn't nearly as intriguing as the psychology of the game, now isn't it Watchman?" A smirk growing on his face, it seems he might have an interesting challenge before him. "Tell me, do you think we're as crazy as our keepers would suggest?"

Expression turning to a more neutral, very "Q-like" stare, the former vagrant surmises "Depends on your estimation of crazy. Would a rational, sane man ever need to question as to his own sanity?"

"If a man is sane enough to ask if he himself is insane, it is therefore obvious he is sane."

"But to question your own sanity even though you are of sane mind implies _doubt_… and doubt leads to questioning your own sanity because you can never be _sure_, could you? Therefore wouldn't you always ponder if you were _really_ sane in the _first place_?"

Frowning a bit, the master of puzzles proposes in reply "Do you insist that a sane man is only insane if he wonders to himself if he is sane? He would need to be insane to question his own sanity."  
Still staring forward, right into this villains small eyes, Gar can almost feel the nerves going up this man's back. The feeling of tension, of a debate gone against him… and the growing feeling Gar notes as the feeling of Alpha starts to overtake his mind. "But you suggest a man that is sane enough to ask himself of his sanity is sane, now you contradict this by saying only an insane man would question his insanity."

Grasping at his head, Edward Nygma begins to lose his composure further. "You are a very irritating sort. Answer my original question: Why are any of us here?"  
"And you never answered my first question. Why are _you_ here? Have you ever questioned your own sanity, Mr. Nygma, or have you no need to question something you already _knew_?"  
Leaping up to the glass, The Riddler demands of his new enemy "Do you think you're superior to me, little one, huh? Do you think you can outsmart someone as intelligent as.."  
A smack on the glass by a passing guard silences the man's ranting. That same guard also warns Gar not to continue provoking the other inmates, especially on his first day.  
…Still, who really is sane in this ward… or are _any_ of them sane?

* * *

"_I wasn't entirely sure what to expect when I heard I was scheduled for my first session of one-on-one "talk therapy". To be honest, I'm not a very open person, even when I was still "Beast Boy" back home in Jump City, before and after my experience with White Rabbit. Sure, I can talk with people about certain things in my life but to get deep into my head is to be in my extreme trust, understand? My mind isn't a very pretty place, not anymore, not after being "Watchman" and living through the Hangar 18 murders… "_

Sitting on a couch of soft leather, Gar leans back in the "patient's" sofa as his doctor, an older gentlemen with a receding hairline of gray hair, a pair of small spectacles on his nose, sits down with a bland, yellow notepad. "I'm sorry for the delay, Mr. Logan. I was delayed in receiving your medical files from administration."

No answer from the vagrant, only a blank stare at the off-white ceiling above with it's faded, age-beaten titles.

"Anyway, let's begin…"

"Begin where?" Gar asks quickly, still looking skyward. "I don't know the end but there's thousands of beginnings."

Adjusting his glasses, beginning to scribble some notes down, the doctor suggests "How about we begin with your early childhood? If there's a cause for your desire of vigilantism, perhaps we can discover it then."

"The files on my early youth have been provided, haven't they?" Gar asks, a slight tinge of irritation rising in his voice. "All the major events, names, and dates should be in that copy of my files you've received from Jump City. What do you think we could find in that time that could explain my current behavior?"

"Well… ahem… As you've said, beginnings are endless. Perhaps the beginning of your compulsion to work in the "hero" profession…"

Sitting upright, turning to the doctor, Gar informs his would-be psychiatrist. "Excuse me, doctor, but I have to tell you that you're the second person during my time in Gotham to call my being a "hero" a part of a trade, as it were. And let me tell you, the other man to tell me that ended up losing his Two-Ton Gang at MY hand. Be careful how you refer to my "job" as it were."

More notes being written, the doctor tries to defuse the situation. "I'm sorry, I meant no offense towards your former activities. I'm merely trying to uncover why you've felt a need to put yourself in harms way, and ultimately in prison, in an effort to save your fellow man."

…

Standing up, moving the couch around so the couch can face directly across from the doctor, Gar sits back down but stares forward as though he is the one doing the psychiatry. "Doctor, I'm not psychologist, but I need you to realize something if your attempt to pick my mind is to get off the ground."

Nervous, just a bit even though security will be ready at the first instance of trouble, he asks of his patient "What is it?"

"In 1994, I ceased being a "human" and thus became a "metahuman". I do not consider myself to be a "man" but rather an animal living in the form _of_ a man. The daily dose of suppressant has kept me in this single form but it is still _my_ form. So, to make you understand what you're getting into, you're not trying to probe the mind of a man who committed 100 murders in self-defense, you're picking the mind of an animal who has to live in a _human_ society. Keep that in mind before you pretend to empathize with my _human_ condition."

* * *

"Well, that could've gone better." Gar mutters, sitting on a couch in the daily room, a sort of general living room for the inmates. Similar to Blackgate's daily "exercise" time, there's televisions, a small game room, and, as always, lots of cameras to monitor everything.

The television shows various programs, none of which feature the news, and certainly no traces of the outside world. No sports, no documentaries, just… dear God, what kind of crap IS this?

"If you're just gonna watch the tube, I'd say just put your head in the microwave. Be-lieve me, it'll quicker and less painful."

Turning his head to the new arrival on the couch, a pair of big, blue eyes look towards the tube with a look of indifference. A pair of large, blonde pigtails rise skyward, a sight that briefly brings an image of Jinx in his mind… "Good advice, Ms.?"

Putting a finger to her lip, her indifferent look turning to genuine surprise, she asks stunned "You haven't heard of me? Wow, you must really like under a rock, huh?"

"_First YDK and now this woman… do these people really think I know EVERYONE?"_  
"When I'm not behind prison bars, I'm living in and out of alleys and broken buildings… on the West Coast of America, too."

Confusion changing to a wide grin, she points out "Hey, you're that… Watchie… Watchmen… What was your name again?"

For a reason beyond him at the moment, he chooses not to laugh. Something about that empty-headed, wide-smile look on her face just screams "Starfire" in his mind but it's all business in this place. "Garfield Logan. Used the name "Watchman" once in awhile back home."

"Oh, I get it, a secret identity, huh? Well, join the club Gar-baby, plenty of those to be found in every direction." Leaning back in the seat, she remarks "Yup, we're all a bunch of looney tunes in this joint. We got everything from a man in a freezer suit all the way up to a great white shark. Neat, huh?"

"One of a kind." Gar answers back, dry as a retort from his favorite goth back home.

"Oh I get it, you're still bummed at being locked in here with the "bad guys", huh? Well, don't sweat it, you ain't got nothin' to worry about with us. It's not like you've pissed any of us off, right… Right?"

Looking back at a table with Riddler writing in a crossword puzzle, Gar surmises "Might've pissed Nygma off a bit but yeah, guess you're right."

"Oh don't worry about Riddler, he's just jealous because he doesn't usually have people to debate with. Give him a chance, he'll come around."

"Considering I'm across the hall from him, I don't have a choice." Looking back to the woman, he asks "Who are you then, ma'am?"

"Ma'am? Pfffh, I'll have you know I'm not old enough to be a "ma'am", yet. Maybe old enough for a "Ms" but I'm certainly no old hag yet." Offering her hand, she tells him "Call me Harley, Harley Quinn."

… The memories of quite a few nationally broadcasted events flashes through his mind. Memories of the Las Vegas incident with Joker and his Royal Flush Gang, memories of various terrorist plots against Gotham… all involving the Clown Prince of Crime and his sidekick… who just so happens to be shaking his hand…  
"Pleased to meet you, Harley. By the way, anyone else I should be worried about?"

Sitting up, she gestures him to get up as well, she tells him "I'll walk ya around, introduce ya to the other nuts in this house…"

* * *

A/N2: So, Gar's finally getting settled into Akrham... and already he's arguing with The Riddler, causing headaches for the psychiatrists, and met a potential good contact in Harley Quinn. I'm not making her as airheaded as the cartoons did (read the comics, she's a lot more intense there) but it's something of a happy medium. There's a few Batman: Arkham Asylum references in this chapter (the game I mean) so see if you can point out what I'm refering to... I don't think Gar's too happy about being called a "human" who "works" as a "hero", do you?

Trivia:  
- Calendar Man, Victor Zsasz, Mr. Freeze, Poison Ivy, and Great White Shark are all referenced.  
- Gar's debate is similiar to the theme of "Catch-22"  
- 1994, Gar would be 7 in my saga's timeline (him being born in Feburary 1987)

Rhetorical: No, Harley's not going to fall for Gar (unlike the rest of the women in this series). Something tells me though Gar's gonna have an interesting time talking to Ivy though.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Back once again with another chapter. Again, as Gar's mainly inside a prison this arc, there isn't going to be a lot of action. Prison life is VERY boring, very tedious, and very repetitive and Gar's is no exception. He can only interact with people, not with fighting (or he'll be put back into solitary) so he's trying to make the best of his self-imposed time in Arkham. However, he may have stumbled onto something (you'll know it when you read it) that I hope to explore in the last half of this arc. By the way, I hope you enjoy the interactions with this chapter. It's fun to have Gar meet people he either doesn't know or hasn't met it years.

**

* * *

99 Years in the Arkham Pen...**

Startling Garfield Logan from sleep, as well as the other inmates of Arkham Asylum, is the sound of a very loud, very ominous siren emanating from outside. Across from his cell, Gar looks to Edward Nygma for some sign of recognition but finds none such from the villain. Even more puzzling is the fact that all the glass doors open on their own, no guards to escort them nor reason revealing itself as to the cause. In this moment, all of the inmates (with the curious exception of Gar) respond to this in kind: They run for freedom.

Poking his head out of the cell, Gar can see people of all sorts escaping down the hallway, cheering for freedom and cursing the establishment that formerly held them inside. Harley Quinn runs by, blowing a kiss at Gar, and wishing him luck on the outside.  
"What the fuck is going on?"

After several more minutes, the inmates escaping out of the door at the end of the hall, Gar himself leaves his cell and continues for the exit. Cautiously, making sure this isn't a trip, the siren outside still in his ears, the idea that a mass jail break begins to echo inside his mind.

As there's no way to see outside through windows, he can only assume that something big must be going down if the sound of gunfire is heard through the old, stone walls.  
"Shit, it _is_ a prison break…"

…

As he passes through the door leading to the next cellblock, Gar's stunned to realize he hasn't entered his intended destination but rather he's greeted by the sight of the scene outside. As prison guards fire indiscriminately at the escaping felons, their work is overshadowed by the vicious streams of lightning, torrential rains, and black thunderclouds above. What the spot lights do no illuminate, the vast stretches of lightning reveal the scene of chaos and carnage before him.  
"My God… they're _killing_ all of them!" Realizing he himself is out in the open, he turns back to the doorway, back towards his cell if he can…

…

But as he passes through the door once again, he finds himself not in his old cellblock but inside Hangar 18, the remains of corpses and skeletons about the room like the trash of a dump yard's warehouse. No sign of Ripper, just the rusted, decaying, blood-spattered remains of the victims he himself laid to waste.

Although Ripper isn't to be found, the reality starts to come together in his mind thanks to the curious sound of bird cawing in the thunderstorm above.

"Scarecrow…"

The hangar collapsing around him, only the thunderstorm remains though a giant now rises from the horizon. Eyes piercing with yellow light, his gloved needle-based hand gleaming with fear-based toxins, the visage of Jonathan Crane reveals itself to the former vagrant.

With a sickening cackle, the master of fear announces himself to his former adversary. "My my, I see you've grown up since my last little trip into your mind, Garfield Logan."

"What's the deal, Scarecrow? Better yet, why are you in my head?" Realizing it's only the insane ex-professor, Gar finds himself more annoyed than fearful indeed.

Face looming close to Gar's body as though a billboard to a child, the hooded figure replies "Why I'm in the same building as you, little dog. I must admit I'm unable to visit you in person, the asylum staff has made it clear my physical body is not to leave their walls ever again."

"But your mental powers allow you to leave, don't they? It's how you've been able to effect my dreams… and everyone else's, even from this far." Arms folding behind his back, steeling his courage, Gar has to admit "Pretty clever for someone who prides himself on creating fear. But unfortunately, you're not that scary."  
"Oh… and why do you suggest _that_?" Shrinking his body down to Gar's height, the twig-thin dead hangman approaches, needles scraping along the ground. "You don't _like_ what I have to show you?"

"I've seen it before." Looking around at the thunderstorm, Gar remarks "And I've seen this even before I met you."

"Your experience with the White Rabbit drug, yes?" A small chuckle at the memory, Scarecrow remarks "I've seen the memory in your head, it was quite vivid, wasn't it?"

"Scarier than you. After all, my mind created that nightmare… and your mind can create terrors far worse than anyone else could make."

"Spoken quite well, little dog." Focusing a moment, the figure of Jonathan Crane changes from a thin hangman to a dark Puritan, his hair dangling from a corporeal face. "If you'll permit me, I enjoy this form better as of late."

"It's still not scary." To prove it, Gar sits down on the ground in meditative style as he had with the Riddler. "It seems I'm at your whim, Crane, so why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"

Not beating around the bush this time, the ex-doctor inquires "I want to know why you're _still here_? Why do you choose to remain in this God forsaken cesspool when you could be out getting revenge on those who poisoned you?"

Tapping his head, Gar replies bluntly "You've read my mind, right? Why do I need to tell you?"

"Your mind holds memories, not reasons. It's the difference between looking at a picture and watching a movie."  
"I'll tell you if you do me a favor."

Intrigued, Scarecrow also sits down as Gar does, his white legs like pale skin poking out from the bottom of his coat. "A favor? Oh, do tell me, _Watchman_…"

* * *

Sitting in the therapy room, awaiting his usual doctor, he's surprised by the sight of a different man entering, a clipboard in his hand but clearly _not _the usual psychiatrist.

"Who are you?"

Sitting in the chair before Gar's couch, this ginger-haired man in his mid 30's seems more gruff than casually interested. "Your normal doctor called in sick. He's been having night terrors as of late…"

"_Thank you, Scarecrow."_ The young man's thoughts mentally go out to Scarecrow but there's business at hand to tend to. "That's a shame. So, who are you?"

Lifting the clipboard to obscure his face, the man answers in a voice that catches Gar off his guard. "That's the _question, isn't it?"_

Eyes widening, he leans forward in his couch to ask "Q? Is that really you?"

Lowering the clipboard, he winks for a moment before reminding in a more authoritative voice "If you wish to call me that, go ahead. We'll conduct this interview under _close scrutiny_, do you understand?"

_"That was the cue from Question that we were under supervision from behind the two-way mirrors. He somehow managed to sneak into Arkham or, more likely, he was able to manipulate his way into my therapy session through some nefarious means. Still, I hadn't seen that crackpot since 2007 and I was seriously starting to wonder if he abandoned me to this fate._

_There wasn't much to be said outside of a few bullshit questions we used to rehearse back in the Hub. Various questions designed to keep witnesses content while the real meaning of our conversation was held in code. I knew when he was asking if I was surviving ok, if I needed outside help to get me free, and a few other things I care not to mention. It was strange talking in "code-speak" as I used to call it, can you blame me? It's like buying a bag of cocaine from a dealer but using the same ordering system you'd use at a McDonald's. One wrong word and the whole conversation (and your life) is fucked up…

* * *

_

_When I got back to my cell, however, I found a few parcels had been delivered, courtesy of my friend on the outside. One involved a picture of a sour-looking "Nightwing", the caption reading "Titans alluded by the Triple Threat once again"… Triple Threat, as he told me, was the new name of the old "Fatal Four" since Dr. Light had gone "missing". Never thought that bitch Madame Rouge would return, especially with Gotham and Central City help… still, it made for a fun reminder of what I didn't have to put up with back at home. The other inmates, especially those that happened to have fought Robin in the past, found just as much joy in that picture as I did.  
The second item in the parcel was a letter from Raven. Apparently Blackgate wasn't too quick with informing her that my address had been changed so the date was still a few months prior but, hey, it was better than nothing. I got to see Robin… ahem.. "Nightwing" look like a bitch AND I got word from my favorite girl back home, I was in heaven._

_Finally, the third thing required some authorization, or so the paperwork said. The only reason I was getting this, they said, was due to my "model inmate" reputation amongst the Arkham staff. I'm sure they didn't refer to my time in the therapy sessions but my time NOT attacking the other inmates. Shit, rambling here. Anyway, the last parcel was a silver, Egyptian Ankh with a thin, silver necklace. According to the note Raven wrote with it, "a strange, hippie woman with skittles urged her to buy it" and to "send it to the Watchman in Gotham."  
… How did she know, you ask? I didn't realize it at first just why she gave it to Raven until I remembered a request I made with a certain pale-skinned woman during my three minutes of death. Even three-thousand miles away, Death still made sure I got my symbol of my time with her… Well, they say Death moves in mysterious ways, huh?_

_Something has been bothering me though since I arrived in Arkham, something that I haven't figured out but I'm sure no one here will let me know about. It seems that every few weeks or so, someone from our block or the one down from us escapes… Not for long, just about one night's worth, and then comes back to the Asylum. Not just back here either, I mean WILLINGLY back here… I'm not crazy about this place but I've never known so many people who WILLINGLY leave and then come BACK, after only one night! It almost seems like a schedule… might be to keep the Batman sharp or maybe it's something deeper… I'll need to investigate this one from the inside, at least for my own curiousity.

* * *

_One of the days in the day room, Gar finds himself studying part of the Arabic language when his resident friend appears across the table from him. "What'cha readin', anyway? You've been at it for days, Gar-baby?"

Looking up at Harley, Gar answers "Studying languages. Still trying to get a grasp of Middle Eastern words right."

Confusion on her face, she asks "How do you know what you're readin' if you can't read the symbols?"  
Eyes back to the book, he reminds her "If I could learn how to speak in animal tongues, I can master Arabic."

"Well, bookworm, class is over for today. I got someone who's been waitin' weeks to meet ya."

Before he can retort, she shuts the book on him, inches from crushing one of his fingers. Glaring at her a bit, he gives up at the wide grin on her face. Sighing, he asks "Ok, who is it?"

"Get up and come find out. I'm not some middle-bitch you know."

…

On the other side of the day room, Harley delivers Gar to the woman who waved at him on the way in. Plopping down on the couch, Quinn gestures him to follow suit. "Gar-baby, I give ya "Red", a.k.a. Poison Ivy."

Gar's face only rises a bit in confusion as if trying to figure out just who this elfin figure is before him. Sure the woman is a dead knockout given that slender, full-bodied figure of her's, even if the skin's green, but _who_ she is doesn't pop into his mind. "Sorry but… who are you?"

That great face of her's turns venomously sour at the retort by this _child_. "Are you deaf, little man, she _told you_ who I am."

"I'm not deaf, I heard who you are. But _who_ are you again? I haven't heard of you before."

'You ain't heard of Red before?" Harley asks, surprised that this former "hero" hasn't even heard of…

"Either you've been living under a rock all these years or you're a total idiot." She informs Gar, taking a hand to her chest. "I'm Mother Nature herself, come to Gotham to remove man's evil corruption of the planet and it's ecosystem."

Straight-faced, dipping back into that same mindset that pissed of Nygma, Gar points out simply "So you're a wildlife nut, then? One of those people who strap dynamite to their bodies and blow up oncoming bulldozers with?"

Harley's look of further confusion is left silent by Ivy's anger-ridden salvo "I'm NOT a "wildlife" nut, you little shit, I'm Mother Nature HERSELF!"

"And I'm Death in a man's form. If you were Mother Nature, wouldn't you have torn down this building by now? Why stay in a cage when you're supposed to be running free in a garden of Eden?" At first the two women are about to reply but stop as the reply, blunt as it is, hits a very honest note. "I'm not a botanist like my parents were but I'm animal enough to know that you can't cage nature, you only avert your eyes from it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ivy dares but the anger in her tone is noticeably fading away with each moment.

Raising an eyebrow, Gar suggests "You can cover the Earth with concrete, pave it, drive over it, and pollute the shit out of it… but nature's still there. You can't escape from it. Sooner or later, it _will_ come back and reclaim what it lost."

Surprised, mainly on Ivy's part as Harley seems a bit confused, the poisonous woman offers to the man before her "That's a pretty good idea there, Gar."

"Well that was assuming you _were_ Mother Nature, which I still doubt you are. Otherwise you would've been free by now and I'd be busy collecting souls for the next world."

* * *

Back by his book on languages, Gar's cheek is noticeably redder than before, despite the green coloration. To his side, a bored looking Harley Quinn remarks "Shouldn't have pissed her off, Gar-baby."

"Still don't think she's Mother Nature."

"Yeah, well, I also think my dear Mr. J is the greatest man this planet's ever seen. But if you ask that bastard Batman, he'd tell you otherwise."

"_Still didn't deserve the slap though."_ "Opinions are like assholes, Harley, everyone has one. Then again you tried introducing the Animal Kingdom to the Plant Kingdom. Trust me, it doesn't end too well when that happens."

"Why's that?"

"Plants will live forever but they don't seem to think outside the box. Animals only live so long but they tend to have the most fun."

Pausing a moment, trying to think of something, she blurts out "You're making that up, aren't you?"

Flipping a page, he answers "Course, I'm not a genius you know."

"Yeah, well animal boy, I think she likes you. Not like _that_ I mean but I think you caught her off-guard with the "nature reclaiming the world" bit. But just so you know, don't think that gives you any special treatment…"

"_Well, if I'm not going to pick up Arabic, might as well learn German."_ "Don't worry about that, I got enough on my hands with you, Harley. I don't think I could handle _both_ of you, not before dinner."

A smack to the back of his head, Gar mutters under his breath as the Joker's sidekick wanders off across the room, muttering about dirty-minded animals and so forth.

* * *

A/N2: Gar might've left an impression with Ivy but still not enough to save him from a bitchslap to the face. Don't worry, she'll be back... There's nothing ball-busters like than being around another one so they can try and one-up as it were. Still, this chapter a few nice cameos, huh? Seeing Scarecrow again, for me, was fun (I think he's in solitary but I've never shown him in person in my series yet) and Q's sneaking in was something I thought would throw you off. As usual, I'm fully expecting everyone to bomb me with "How did he get in?" and "Where's Scarecrow?" and stuff like this... If you're going to ask, remember that asking only takes away from the fun of FINDING OUT WHEN I WRITE IT!

Rhetorical: Gar gets his Ankh from Death (courtesy of my lucky charm, skittles) and possibly has a friend to help him get out of those annoying therapy sessions. For a guy who's not endearing himself to the general population, he almost seems to have them working _for_ him, doesn't it?


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Apologies for taking so long to post this but I'm burning out quick. Not from depression but actually because I'm trying to get back into shape. I've been exercising, swimming, and boxing nearly 7 days out of 8 for the past few weeks and it's leaving me a bit burned out when it comes to writing "downer" stuff. Still, I'm not going to abandon this story (as you guys know, I do take breaks), but this will be the last update for a little bit. I'm thinking about starting work on my Gundam saga that's been bouncing in my head for awhile now so, any UC/Wing fans out there, heads up. In the meantime, keep an eye out for a lot of things in this chapter, trust me.

**

* * *

99 Years in the Arkham Pen...**

**From the notes of Dr. Harleen Quinzel:**

"Based on the sessions I've undertaken, I have come to finalize my report on the patient known as "Garfield "Watchman" Logan". Below is a hand-written account of my impressions, conclusions, and suggestions as to what course to proceed with from this point on regarding the patient."

"_Gee, never thought I'd be the one sittin' in the big chair again, watchin' some other looney babble on their life's story while I was the one writin' the notes. Even more funny thinkin' about how far I've really come since meeting my dear Mr. J. Still, I was given an assignment and I'd be damned if I wouldn't do my damndest. I just wish the asylum staff could've gave me more warnin' though…_

_As if the building wasn't gloomy enough but during our last storm, the A/C AND the power went out at the same time. Nothin' like sweatin' it up inside a cramped cell in the nuthouse to make you feel cheery at the world, huh? Oh, sure, Red enjoyed the hell out of it. It's not like she needed to worry about freezin' to death but poor Mr. Freeze… Anyway, enough about that freezie-pop, onto the story, right?_

_A girl's gotta get her beauty sleep if she's gonna look her best, even in this hellhole. So between the summer heat and being woken up by the asylum staff, I found myself rightfully pissed off. Not only was I bein' dragged out of bed for some mystery reason but I was told this was a personal request by the Warden AND the Arkham Board of Parole. Bunch a creeps, the lot of them, but it got me out of my cell at least._

"_So, what's the big occasion? You takin' me out for a night on the town, Sharpie?" I asked ever so innocently. Everyone thinks I'm this ditzy, air-headed bimbo blonde. Then again, there's a difference between what you think and what you know._

"_Hardly, criminal. You're only here because we've run out of options with this one."_

"_Options, huh? Gee, way to make a girl feel loved." Just because you can be sarcastic doesn't mean you should. Had I been one of the male inmates, I'm sure one of those no good guards would've clocked me one._

"_It's either this or your can go back and sweat to death in your cell. At least where we're taking you has cool air."_

_That much gave me some sense of optimism. "Really? That'd be great with all the heat and all… But wait a sec, why do you have A/C over here and not back in the cells?"_

_That old bastard looked at me with a tiny grin on his ugly mug "Because keeping the inmates isn't our first priority. You should be happy you have ANY oxygen at all."_

…

_Standing outside of the therapy rooms, the Warden and his gang stopped a moment to brief me._

"_Listen Harleen, before you go in there you must understand what you're getting into."_

"_I'm not Harleen, Sharpie, I'm HARLEY."_

_He was holdin' back one of his fists, I could tell even in the dim-lit hallway, but he still needed me, right?_

"_Well for what you're about to do, you'll consider using your old name. This isn't a normal interview you're about to conduct. It requires someone with a mind into criminals that only someone like yourself could understand."_

"_Oooh, special ops, huh? So, what do you need me to do?"_

"_He's willing to talk to you on the basis that you DON'T treat him like a regular human being. None of our staff have been able to get very far with him… He suggested you, why we're not altogether sure, but if it gets what we need, then so be it."_

_Fuck him. I offered a mock salute and a too-wide grin "Yes sir, I'll do my best. Let me at 'em, I'm ready to go."_

_One of the guards gave me a pad of paper and a pen, warning me to put them on the ground when I finished inside. Jerks._

"_We'll be watching via security camera so don't try anything rash with this one." Sharp warned me, for the first time serious in his tone. "We're counting on you, whether we like it or not."_

_Dig that knife in a little deeper, babe. Winking at him, I answered "You can count on Harley, baby."_

…

_I stepped into the room, expectin' to see one of the more crazy inmates of our "fine" home away from home. Instead I made eye contact with the man from the other side of the tracks, as it were._

"_Hello." Gar-baby offered, standing straight with his hands behind his back. This was something of a surprise, given that I hadn't heard that he'd be asking for me._

"_Gar-baby? What's goin' out, why are you in here?"_

"_I'm your patient, Ms. Quinzel. Thought you'd never get here." If he found the look on my face funny, he didn't mention it. Taking a seat on the couch, he offered a hand towards me. "I'm ready if you are."_

"_What's the deal, Gar? Why'd you drag me all the way down here like this? They said I was supposed to be your shrink. I ain't been a shrink since I broke Mr. J out years ago."_

"_I heard it from a man in my dreams that you were once an up-and-coming doctor, specializing in the criminally insane. I figured since you've been so kind to me as of late, I'd offer you the chance to feel special again."_

_My eye twitched, that much I know. Something about that last statement really sent me up a wall but that bastard remained calm as a brick. "Special? Just WHAT is that supposed to mean?"_

_Didn't even flinch… he never seemed that serious with me, even in his cell. "I'm offering you the chance to show our keepers just how special your talents really are. A chance to do what no in this asylum seems capable of: Professionally analyzing me as a psychiatrist would. Consider it a gift, something I can pay you with rather than money at the moment."_

"_So you want me as your head doctor, huh? Sorry but I'm not in that business anymore. I'm a fully-fledged criminal, insane if you haven't forgotten…"_

"_I know what that's like too, according to the Gotham State. I'd consider it an honor, really."_

… _What did he mean by that, I didn't find out until later. There was something fishy about this whole thing, I could smell it, but what could I do? Turn my back on him and say "no, fuck you"? No, he really wanted this… I heard the stories of how other doctors tried to read him and only ended up being driven crazy by his mindset. So, maybe everyone was right: Maybe a crazy was just the woman for the job._

"… _Ok, I'll do it, but only on one condition."_

"_Anything."_

"_Don't call me Harleen or Ms. Quinzel, ok? It's Harley. A hunk a shit by any other name is still shit and I ain't anythin' but Harley, got it?"_

_He took his place on the sofa and nodded. "Understood."

* * *

_

_What was I thinkin', takin' on a job like this. Even though he answered my questions with honesty, I could tell something was up from the beginning. I knew it from the way he studied the books he'd been delivered. Garfield is a VERY smart individual, whether or not you choose to believe it, and having seen it first-hand, I can tell you he's very underestimated._

_Most crazies tend to be business-like, calm and cool until you say the wrong thing. Sharpie warned me not to provoke him by referring to his human side but I did once, an accident that I couldn't fix in time… And yet, he didn't react, didn't flip out or anything. He gave me a glance as well as a polite nod, then went back to the question. Things like that DON'T happen with the normal crazies… they happen with the rationally sane OR the dangerous crazies._

_We were allotted one hour a day for as long as necessary. The simple fact I got out of Day One without a single argument was enough to convince Sharpie I was the greatest doctor on Earth. I don't need any of his ass-kissing or any of yours for that matter. He must've trusted me more than anyone thought… or maybe had just needed someone who was nuts to talk to._

_Apparently Gar-baby had some issues with the last few doctors. Apparently one tried to question whether or not he was hiding behind his animal nature because of a fear of being rejected as a human being… He didn't attack her or even shout… Instead he pulled the couch over and stared at her straight in her eyes from about three inches away._

_He asked her simply… "What do you see in my eyes?"_

_That scared woman answered honestly "…nothing…"_

"_That's right, there isn't anything left. But do you know what I see in your eyes? Fear. Not a fear OF me because you know I wouldn't hurt you or else the guards would kill me. No, I see a fear of the "unknown." A fear that most humans have when they're out in the wilderness, alone, with no protection or way out. A fear of nature, a fear that, for all of your human control in the real world, in the animal world, you're nothing more than MEAT. It's not I who's afraid of being rejected by humans, it's you who's afraid of being rejected by nature. Humans can't conquer nature but nature can easily conquer YOU."_

_Pressing the record button on the tape recorder, Harley begins "Patient Interview #1. Patient's name is Garfield Logan, also known as the famous vigilante "Watchman" and/or "Beast Boy" of Jump City. Are you ready to begin, Gar?"  
"When you are, Ms. Quinn."_

"_Where should we begin, then?" I asked, readying my pad for writing whether notes worth taking._

"_Everything worth knowing about my time prior to Gotham is within your possession, Harley. How about we start with Gotham City, hmm?"_

_He was right, I did have access to his files from Jump City, but the early questions could wait for later. It seemed he was on to something and I didn't want to interrupt just yet. "Yeah, we could do that. Tell me how you got here."_

_Lying back on the couch, he took a look to the ceiling and I could see those green eyes of his fade away into the memory… Is that how we all look when we let our guards down?  
"My time on the ship had come to end and not a day too soon. The old man on the ship was right, I'm not cut out for a life on the ocean…"

* * *

_In the cell that afternoon, Gar sits in the humid, sweaty confines of his prison without any clothes. Guards be damned or not, he's busy reading up on languages still even as guards across the way move to Nygma's cell.

"Finally, you good for nothing guards listen to me. I tell you that man's crazy!"

Looking up from his book, Gar notes with bored eyes that Nygma's trying to avoid looking at the very naked, and very dangerous former vagrant across from him.

Helping him move his few things from his cell, Edward Nygma is moved out of his cell. Finally, some peace and quiet without a quiz-bound nutcase to ask stupid questions about which language Gar's reading up on next.

Then again, the sounds of name calling and cheering echo from down the cellblock, prompting the metahuman to hone in on the sound with his limited hearing. Still hard to make out the name though it appears they're getting closer. Whoever it is should be passing by right…

With a fleet of guards around him, a new patient is put into Nygma's old cell. Door shut, guards moving away, the twin visage of Harvey "Two-Face" Dent looks back at Gar with a mixture of surprise and rage growing between his faces.

"You…"

Looking up from the book enough to reveal his whole face, Garfield calls out simply and uninviting "You two."

Hands on the glass, snarling, the duality-themed criminal would snap Gar's neck if not for the glass holding him back. "At least I'll have the pleasure of killing you myself, boy. You made a mistake killing my Two-Ton Gang, a grave mistake indeed."

Setting the book aside, Gar stands up and moves to the glass. Forget the fact he's stark naked, a fact which brings catcalls from the more nutty inmates who can see him, Gar stops at the glass and stares at Two-Face. "Mistake? It was your's for letting _him_ lure them away."

"Who?" Dent demands, the statement not expected from the green boy in the other cell.

"A man with two faces, just like yourself, _Harvey Dent_." Glaring, Gar demands "Did you know him? Do you know _Ripper_, Two-Face? Answer me or I'll be the one killing YOU!"

"Who the hell you talkin' about? I don't know any damn Ripper, especially if he got two faces. Tryin' to weasel your way out of this won't save you, boy."

Taking a moment to stare into the rage-filled eyes of the two personalities, Gar answers calmly at last "Begging won't save yours." Turning back to his bed and the book, Gar asks of his new neighbor "Keep the noise down when I'm reading. I don't like being disturbed."

* * *

"So, you always wanted to be a superhero or did it beat doin' manual labor?" Harley asks during another session between the two.

"Maybe as a kid, when living life as a comic book character seemed more fun than reality. But as you get older, you start to see just how naïve you can really be as a kid. Guess the "superhero" aspect of my "career" really buried that last bit of innocence, huh?"

"Or maybe you've just been hidin' it under your skin for so long now you've forgotten what it's like to be a normal person?" She suggest, writing something down. "Take it from someone who's been in this "business" for a long time, Garfield, you don't just stop being human just because you put on a mask. Take Batman, the prick… He's not a real bat, he's just some guy in a mask who just happens to have a stick up his ass when it comes to honest people like us."

"Honest? That's a unique way of suggesting it. More like honestly dishonest if you want to be correct about it."

"True but that makes you just as honestly dishonest as us, Gar-baby. Accordin' to the staff, if you're not up in arms about people like us, then you belong in the loony bin along with the rest of us. It ain't a great system, is it?"

Rising to his feet, Gar looks towards the two-way mirror, his back to a curious Harley Quinn. Eyes leveling on where the staff _should_ be, he asks almost rhetorically of his interviewer "For a society claiming to be so very open-minded and optimistic, it's sure quick to adopt absolutism. To these _people_, there's only one way to deal with the metahuman population, good and evil. They treat us like we're some form of disease, some dangerous threat ready to devour their whole world if we don't keep _their_ world perfectly happy and crime-free. Definitely absolutism, hmm? Obey and work for _their_ benefit, then you're good. Disagree and work for your own cause and, boom, you're in the black and wrong. Does that sound _right_ to you?"

Harley stands up as Gar moves to the glass, looking into his own reflection but wishing the guards and staff can see him. "Garfield?"

"99 years in prison for killing 100 hundred of humanity's filth… 99 years for doing something _every_ individual _wishes_ they could do or that someone _would_ do in their stead. And I didn't even have a _choice_ in the matter, I _had_ to fight or I'd be one of those corpses in that hangar… I didn't get a parade, I didn't get a key to a city, nor did I even receive a single thank you." Turning back to Harley, a very real look of fear spreading across her face, he tells her with piercing eyes "I'm the only honest one in this entire building for doing what everyone _honestly_ wants to do on a daily basis… But humans never really want honesty, do they? They want the lie that makes them feel happy, makes them feel like they control their own little world. And that's why we're in here, Harley, because we don't need the lie. We don't need to pretend we're the greatest." Taking his seat once more, he finishes "And that's why I'm not famous… I'm doing the things that I feel is right rather than the things I _should_ be doing to get on… "

* * *

A/N2: Harley's doing Gar's therapy sessions, Two-Face ain't too happy with his new neighbor, plus now you know where this story's "narration" is coming from. I figured having Harley interview Gar would be something interesting to say the least but I think prison life's beginning to wear at Gar. He isn't as upbeat, isn't as "I'll escape when I want" as he was in the beginning... And if anything, I'd say he's becoming a lot more harder on the inside (especially on his view of "normal" "human beings")

Trivia:  
- Warden Sharp, another Batman: Arkham Asylum reference.

Rhetorical:  
I was going to take my break at the end of this arc but since it took me almost 12hrs just to get off my ass and upload this, you can tell how motivated I am with writing these days.  
_  
_


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Couldn't resist so I belted out another chapter. I see 2 more chapters left (one from the fallout of this, then the closing). A lot happens here, some of it funny, some not so much. Gar's story is becoming more tragic by the day, it's a shame...  
**

* * *

99 Years in the Arkham Pen...**

**From the notes of Dr. Harleen Quinzel:**

"_After hearing his speech about humanity, I decided to take a different approach for the next session. Rather than there even be a session, I figured observing him in his "natural" environment would yield better results. He isn't much of the therapy session type so maybe just watching him talk with the other inmates would provide better insight._

_The guards weren't too pleased making him put his clothes back on during our recreation hours. For a bunch of people who'd willingly inject us with painkillers and happy drugs, they're sure prudish when it comes to showing a little skin. Don't blame us if you don't bother to fix the A/C in the building whenever there's a heat wave._

_Still, watching him and Re… Poison Ivy talk was interesting from an outsider's point of view. She'll be the first to tell ya she's not really a fan of men, troublesome creatures that they are. But maybe there's something to Gar-baby that we haven't picked up on? Ivy denies any sort of affection for the green bean but she's been awfully nice to him as of late._

_Now, don't get me wrong, this isn't some sore of boring, lame ol' soap drama. By "being nice" I'm pointing out that she's been givin' him advice on plants and heaven knows what else. Hell, she even arranged a few books on botany and ecology for the bookworm. Listen, I've never seen a guy with that big a build get so deep into books, it's unreal! Ahem… back to what I was talkin' bout, huh?_

_Ivy's not the only one he seems to be connecting with. With the exception of Two Face, he's been getting' along with everyone they've let croud into the rec room. Even that weirdo Calendar Man's been happier with Gar around. Gar-baby might be smart but he doesn't know too much in terms of holidays and such so he's been able to give ol' Calendar a feeling of satisfaction again. To each their own, huh?_

_I don't know what it is about him, I really don't. Maybe after all those years of changin' his shape, he's gotten good at bein' able to change his personality. He talks like a goof when he's with me, talks like a eco-nut when he's with Ivy, tells dirty jokes when he's with that puppet Scarface, it's beyond me. If a normal goody two-shoes was put in Arkham with us, we'd tear em' limb from limb as revenge but, like he said, maybe he's not really a hero after all?_

…

_During our normal sessions, he's much more business-like, straight to the point, as though he's a willing member of our troupe. When we got to the subject of what he plans to do once he's granted parole, it was the first time I saw his eyes light up…_

"_Gonna go back to Africa." Gar told me, not a smile on his face but I could tell he wasn't lying neither. "Go run on the plains, might go as a Cheetah, and run until my legs give out. Cages don't suit animals very well, right?"_

"_No, they don't. You're startin' to feel cooped up, aren't ya?"_

_And just like that, the shine in his eyes disappeared. "I'm starting to feel worried."_

"_Worried, about what? You can tell me, Gar-baby."_

_That iron look cast over his face again, eyes like a statue's while that frown turned just a bit more sour. "About what might happen if I'm here longer than people tell me. If I don't figure out what's really wrong in my own head and people stop sending me letters."_

"_People" for him might as well be another word for "she", his little fling from back home. "Don't worry, I'm sure they won't forget about you."_

_Stood up again, just like that. He's been doing that a lot, a byproduct of an animal being caged too long becoming jittery. "Not that they'd forget; they wouldn't be alive to send it."_

"_If somethin' happened to one of them, one of their friends would mail you, I'm sure of it. You can't dwell on what you can't change, right?"_

_I didn't catch what he said next, it sounded like German to me but he definitely muttered it under his breath. In English, he reminded me "Let's move on then, shall we?"_

_..._

_It's strange, y'know? Ever since they assigned me to Gar's case, I've been reading a lot more psychology and psychiatry books again. I've been doing research again for the first time since my college days; I forgot how much work it involved. And yet the more I read, the more I start to feel that fire again… I find myself doin' it during rec time, analyzing the other inmates even though they think I'm just talkin' to them. Mr. J wouldn't be too happy with me readin' some other guy's mind like this but… that's a different story, ain't it?_

_Actually I blame Gar-baby for this. If he didn't ask for me to be his doc, if he didn't have to be such a bookworm, I'd never get back into this mindset. He reads so often it's almost makin' me go nuts wonderin' where he gets any fun out of it. Not to mention he's so quick at pickin' things up that I wonder if he ain't one of them geniuses. No, he ain't one of them, he gets hit by Ivy and me too often to be that smart… Still, the more he reads and talks with me, the more I feel like keeping up, y'know? Almost like the bastard's… inspiring me to do better, if only for myself…

* * *

_

"What's the byproduct of photosynthesis?"

"Sunlight is absorbed through Chlorophyll, producing Oxygen as a waste."

"How many varieties of grass are there on Earth?"

"Over 3500."

"Very good. Now, tell me, what do you suppose Anthophobia is?"

Gar looks at the sly-looking redhead before him, cocks his head to the side slightly, and finally admits defeat. "No f'in clue, Ive."

A small laugh to herself, she informs him "A person who's totally afraid of flowers."

"Don't remember reading that in that book you suggested." Gar points out, reminding her "Pretty dirty move for a plant. Us animals wouldn't trick you like that."

"No, you'd just set up a trap and pounce without _any_ concern for what you're made of."

Gar will take that challenge, leaning back in his seat as she folds her arms. "Animals don't need to worry about their genetic makeup because that's what eating other animals or eating plants are for. What good is worrying about cellular functions when all you need to do is maul another animal or a field of grass to keep living?"

"You animals, always so ignorant to your own cellular building blocks. You wouldn't be able to _eat_, much less _exist_, if your cells didn't come together just right."

Finger raised, Gar points out "Ah, but that's why plants are a lower form of evolution than animals. We've taken the basic structure AND functions of plant life and made it a standard function. We don't _need_ to worry about it because we've _evolved_ beyond worrying about it. So, by that definition, we don't need to know what we're _made of_ but rather how to _maintain_ and _evolve further._"

A twitch in her eye follows a slight growl from her lips. " You're ignoring the point you empty-headed mammal. You can't _live_ if you don't know what you're _made_ of."

Keeping a straight face though some part of him can't help but laugh on the inside. "That's moot. I didn't even know what cellular growth was until you told me! I've been alive for longer than three days, Ive."

"The world was round before we knew it, Garfield!" She retorts, keeping her voice down as the guards look their way with suspicion. "Just because you don't know it doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

Leaning up forward in his chair, close enough to whisper so she can hear, Gar asks a surprised-looking Poison Ivy in a serious tone "I don't know why people keep escaping and coming back, Ivy, but I'd like to find out."

…

"What? What are you talking about?" though she's trying to backpedal, the sudden look of surprise alerts Gar to the truth.

"In the past few months, almost a dozen high-profile inmates have escaped for one night, ONE night… And then they either surrender willingly or wait for Bats to pick them up… Doesn't add up, does it?"

Looking away from him slightly, she eyes the guards for a moment "I don't know what you're talking about, Gar… and if I were you, I wouldn't worry about it any further."

"Sounds like something big." Gar points out, ignoring the obvious warning to stop. "Sounds like something well organized too…" Sitting back though, he takes a finger to his lip.

Her eyes meeting his once again, she tells him "I'm not warning you for your own benefit, _Garfield_. What's going down is bigger than you realize and it's something a _hero_ like you can't be allowed to jeopardize. Besides, if you _did_ find out what's going on, you might try and do something stupid."

"Like stop them?" Gar proposes.

That sly smile returning once more, Ivy answers with a hand through her hair "No, you might try and _join_ them."

* * *

Thirty minutes before lights out, Garfield finds himself now being escorted down to an interrogation room flanked by four guards, each holding a shotgun each. Despite his near perfect record with the guards, the Warden has been extra cautious given the recent escape of Victor Zsasz. Who knows if this criminally insane metahuman might be the next one to escape under their noses?

Still, it doesn't take long for them to open the door and shove Gar into the room.

"What am I supposed to do in here?" Gar asks, noticing the pitch blackness of the space before him.

"You'll know." The lead guard remarks, shutting the door behind him.

…

Sighing, Gar tries to focus his mind out to the room but finds nothing… just the faint sound of…

"You've grown."

Eyes widening, he'll never get used to that biting tone… "Batman?"

Light flipping on, the Caped Crusader takes a seat at a table Gar hadn't seen before the lights turned on. "Sit."

No sense in protesting, this could be serious if even the Bat came to visit. Taking his place on the cold chair, Gar asks the obvious "What's wrong?"

"Outside of the fourteen suspicious escapes since January, nothing. "

"Been wondering that myself. I asked Poison Ivy but she didn't know."

Those white slits narrowing, the Dark Knight warns "Be careful how close you get to these sociopaths, Garfield. Just when you think you're getting through to them, they turn and stab you in the back."

"Personal experience?'

Glaring harder, Bats warns "Have you found out anything?"

"No, not a word. Harley and Ivy warned me not to get involved, Two Face yells at me all the time, and Scarecrow…"

At mention of the Scarecrow, Bats demands to know "You've been talking to Crane? How long?"

"The first time was in 2007 in Jump City… ever since I got here we've been talking during my dreams."

"Jonathan Crane has been locked inside Stryker's in Metropolis since his former friend Doctor Destiny almost fried his mind back in 2005. He's been locked in high security ever since, there's no way he could've gotten to you. He wouldn't even _know_ you."

"Are you sure about that?" Gar asks in defiance. "He found a way to give Doctor Light a fear-cure… he found a way to terrorize the Teen Titans. He found a way to torture Antoine Desade's daughter. Hell, he even found a way to make Raven act like a normal, human being!"

"And has he helped you find out why people are escaping Arkham?"

"I asked him about but he only insists it would take away the fun of not knowing. Believe it or not, I don't think he's involved."

"Why's that?"

"Because people who know how stories are going to end aren't as excited as people who don't." Leaning forward, Gar proposes "I'll help you the best I can but I have no intention of putting my own personal goal aside."

"Controlling your animal side?"

"Yes. I've been trying to figure out what triggers it but it's hard when you're cooped up like this."

The silence in Batman's tone triggers a thought in Gar's mind, enough to tweak his expression from neutral to caution. "Speaking of which, why _did_ I get assigned to Arkham? Why was I put in with the other lunatics? You should be able to tell me _that_ much."

"You were put here to keep an eye on these fiends. Whether or not you actually acted on that impulse was up to you but now that you know, it's time to get to work."

"Work?"

Standing, Batman tells the young prisoner straight "These escapes aren't random, you've figured that out by now. There's a pattern behind this and I'm working on that. In the meantime, I need you to continue working over the inmates and see if you can get one of them to talk."

"I'm not a Justice Leaguer, Batman. Hell, I'm not even a _hero_ or any of that shit anymore. Why should I help you if you've been content to let me rot in here?"

A few steps is all it takes for Batman to close the gap between the two. It only takes one hand, however, to lift Gar off the floor by his shirt collar and another hand to lay a hard right across his green face.

"_Holy shit, he hits like a fuckin' bag of bricks!"  
_"Wake up, Garfield. If you want to see freedom again in your life, you're going to do this. These people you've been talking to are dangerous criminals who'd kill you AND everyone you've ever cared about without a second thought! If they have something large going down, something that could threaten MY city, then you WILL help or else you're going to be in a VERY bad position, understand? I don't have time for your arrogance OR your apathy! Grow the hell up before you end up letting someone get killed!"

* * *

"_Gar-baby wouldn't be to our next therapy session for another few minutes, or so Sharpie told me. Apparently he needed to let me know something deep about Gar's future in Arkham Asylum… just didn't realize how deep he really meant.  
"From this day on, we'll be suspending Garfield's requests for new books as well as any mail from his associates in Jump City."_

"_What?" I shrieked, realizing what this meant. "You're going to keep him from reading OR getting mail? Mr. Sharp, if you do that, the only two things keeping him sane in this place will disappear! You can't just…"_

"_I can do whatever I want to, Ms. Quinzel, that's why I'm the Warden and you and him are just filth. If we continue to let him read books that are related to potential dangerous activities, he could continue to pursue his delusional dream of being a vigilante. Also, if we continue to let him read mail from home, mail that could keep his passion for crimefighting alive, he'll never be able to rehabilitate and we'll need to keep him here forever! You must understand, Ms. Quinzel, that this is the only way to help him move past his obsession with being a vigilante."_

"_So instead of letting him have his last sense of pride in his life, you're going to snuff it out just so he can be a "normal" person like the rest of you? That's fucking pathetic and you KNOW IT!"_

"_Watch your tone, criminal. Just because you've been given special treatment DOESN'T mean we'll tolerate this sort of outburst. Now, you are to tell him NOTHING of this decision, understood? We can't have him throwing a temper tantrum just because we refuse to baby him."_

_I hate that bastard, with all my heart I hate him. Taking away his favorite hobby in here and then denying him any chance of hearing from the woman he… It's not fair! "… So what do I tell him? That because he's a POTENTIAL threat, he's fucked?"_

"_You go in there and you do what you've been doing. Make no reference to this conversation or it's topics, understood? With luck,, he'll assume they've stopped talking to him and he'll move on."_

_An accessory to this, I felt so ashamed for letting it happen… Ashamed to even admit that I even held back a tear for the green man.. this would break what little heart he still had… Sharpie will get his one day, I'll see to it personally… "Yes sir…"

* * *

_A/N2: Harley put in the middle of this... I know everyone considers Batman the epitome of heroism but I consider him also the most paranoid and most dominating of all the superheroes. If you don't play ball his way, you'll play ball or else. Bat's was kind enough to get Gar into Arkham, wasn't he? Or was it for something not so nice? Gar's darkest days are still ahead of him but there's a light on the horizon still.

Trivia:  
- Harl's reviving interest in psychiatry is my attempt at explaining her finale in Batman Beyond (she seemingly turned after Joker's death). Since I consider this story between Batman: TAS and Beyond, figured I'd start moving towards the future ;)  
- Gar's quiz with Ivy was helped by Wikipedia, I'm not that good at Botany.

Rhetorical:  
- It's true what Gar said.. I'm not as excited about writing this as you guys are about reading this. After all, I know how this story ends...


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: The 2nd-to-last chapter of this arc and a lot happens at once. Time has jumped forward quite a bit throughout this arc, you'll see just how much in the final chapter coming up. Gar finally collapses, whether or not he even realizes it... but the night is darkest just before the dawn, isn't it?  
**

* * *

99 Years in the Arkham Pen...**

**From the notes of Dr. Harleen Quinzel:**

"_The patient's been unusually quiet since Sharpie took away his books and suspended receiving his mail. According to Two-Face, he hasn't even bothered to argue whenever Dent tries to piss him off. Most of the days he stares at the walls, the rest of the time he's exercising or eating, and lately he's taken to talking to himself. Without something to keep his mind off prison life, he must be nearin' his breaking point._

_And I can't help but feel rotten on the inside. I've been accessory to murder, thefts, and plots of mass destruction throughout my illustrious criminal career, you name it, I've probably done it. But to sink as low as complying with Sharpie's request to keep Gar-baby in the dark… How am I supposed to help treat him if they try to put the cuffs on both me AND him? Don't they see that they're only tryin' to make him lose what little sanity he has left?_

_It got pretty bad during September when he didn't speak for an entire week. The guards didn't mind it but even Two-Face got a little worried. The entire time he just sat in his cell, staring at the walls or whatever else might've occupied his mind. I can only imagine the hell that must be swirling in his mind, worrying about his girlfriend back home…  
_

_Scarier still was when he decided to stare at Two-Face for three days straight. Normally this would've gotten Dent riled up but after a full day, he started to get worried. Garfield didn't look away the entire time, just straight into the other man's eyes. The only way Two-Face could tell he was still alive was from the occasional blink and the sight of breathin' in his chest. Otherwise, he might've passed for one of those spooky gargoyles they have on the old churches._

_Ivy's been depressed as well since Gar decided to become a mute. She even admitted to me she started to enjoy their usual debates about animals and plants… If it weren't for the increased security followin' the repeated breakouts, we might've chipped in to try and make Gar-baby feel better. It's hard to help one guy when they insist we try not to "influence" him too much._

…

_In mid-October, somethin' strange happened in his cell when everyone was sleepin'. Near Halloween, everyone, includin' your's truly, woke up to the sound of a terrible scream from Gar's cell. It was a human's, I know that much, he hadn't suddenly shifted forms in his sleep, but it was a scream I'll never forget._

_Two-Face said he bolted upright when he heard the screams. Gar was sitting upright, eyes wide and glowin' an eerie green. His fangs were longer than normal, his hair growin' inches at a time. But what really had him shakin' in his bed was he wasn't screaming in anger, he was howlin' in agony. Before the doctors got to him, he started clutching at his head, tears pourin' down his cheeks while he bashed away at his head with his fists. _

"_What the hell's your problem?" Two Face shouted, probably because Gar woke him up from a sound sleep more than any honest concern. "We're tryin' to sleep!"_

_Then, according to Dent, Gar-baby turned to the former D.A. and started banging his head off the walls, off the glass, anything. He thrashed around the room, throwin' his body around like one of them mosh pits, trying to do something that I could only guess at. When the doctors got to him to give him the metahuman suppressors, he had already opened a deep gash on his forehead as well as dislocated one of his arms. It took 2 suppressors and a couple CC's of sedatives to wear him down enough to strap him to the bed. _

… _It didn't occur to me until I read his file again that it had been the anniversary of his former girlfriend's murder in Jump City. Whatever nightmares we went through that night, his must've been a true hell indeed."

* * *

_

"_My final interview with him came before Thanksgiving. After he recovered from his injuries from the nightmare, he was brought before me for what became our final talk in this role. His eyes were bloodshot, sunken into his skull from days of not sleeping. He even looked as though he gave up exercise a little, his prime form looking a little less tone than previously seen.  
"It's been a few weeks, Garfield." Nothing too much, just to test the waters.  
"Few."  
"Yeah… listen, about what happened. It might do us some good if we discuss the event two years ago that night…"  
Before his eyes were downcast and tired but at the mention of the nightmare, he looked back at me as though he was Dracula or somethin'.  
"Nothing to tell. Any life we would've had, snuffed out by the Ripper."  
"You mentioned that Ripper was the man you were after once Deadshot gave up the name. Who exactly is he?" This Ripper figure seems to play a large part of his hero life, someone who's made things personal, and it's only brought Gar ruin._

"_Evil."  
"Evil?"  
"The kind of evil mankind creates. Kills for fun, set up the hangar incident… He walks free, I rot in here forever."  
That was the first time I ever heard him admit that he's not thinking about escaping or being released… He actually admitted he's going to be in here… Not a good sign for someone so close to the brink. "Gar, you haven't given up hope have you? You'll be free someday, I'm sure of it."_

"_Kein Entweichen, nur Tod." He spoke in German, it's meaning having been found after that day.  
"What? I don't understand."  
His eyes fixed on mine from that point on, something was brewing in his mind and it made me shake on the inside. This was the stare he gave Two-Face for three days and it finally made the man give up picking a fight with him. "Been months since any mail. Could be dead… think I'm dead…"_

…_. "Garfield, I'm sure they'll send you something soon. If they were dead…"  
"Vous obéissez votre maître…" He retorted, a grimace on his face though his eyes never left me once. "Harley, tell me the truth. They cut off my mail, didn't they?"_

_He probably noticed how quickly my facial expression tried to cover up my surprise, he's pretty damn good at reading body language. "No, I wouldn't know…"  
"You WOULDN'T?" He shouted at me, the first time he even raised his voice at me. And yet, I couldn't blame him for… "Rush of blood across your face, quick swallow of nerves, the blink to the side as you answered. How long? How long have I been denied?"_

_Sharpie and the staff can kiss my ass. They were watching through that two-way but I was starting to crack bad… Gar-baby's the only real nice guy I've met on the "hero" side and I had to be part of bringing him down to our level. "Since the summer. Since that night you were taken to go visit the Bat…"_

_His face contorted, burned with a sense of pain that could only be described as heartbreak. Here I was, his closest friend and confidant in Arkham, revealin' to him after five months that I KNEW his only link to the outside world was cut. But then he surprised me by standing up, letting his face soften as he held out his arms._

"_Harley, thank you. For everything."_

"_Gar?"_

"_Just a hug, from a friend to a friend?"_

_Nervous, I stepped up and let him take me in a hug. It was strange, being held like this, unsure if he'd snap my neck or…  
"It's the price we pay for being ourselves." He told me, very softly… it even reminded me of my father a little bit. "At least you got to be special again."_

"_Why are you doing this?" I asked, feeling a few tears in my eye. Fuck you, I'm still human inside, I'm not some friggin' robot. "What's happened to you?"_

"_You, Ivy, the staff, they've taken me as far as you can. Now, I have to finish this on my own."_

_Pulling back, I demanded what that last bit meant. "What are you plannin' on doing?"_

…

_With that, he grabbed the stool between the two chairs in his hands. Swinging it, he threw it at the glass between us and the asylum staff, shattering it into a billion pieces.  
"Arbeit macht frei!" Gar shouted as the security began to burst into the room. He made no further attempts to resist, mainly demanding he be put in solitary as he had in Blackgate. As they dragged him away, tranquilizers in his skin, there's little doubt that's where they took him._

**Final Notes:**

_"In my professional opinion, I would propose that Garfield "Watchman" Logan may be suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, intense detachment from humanity at large, as well as possible dimensia and/or paranoia. His obsession with reading and physical exercise leads me to suggest a sharp, well-tuned mind approaching high levels of intelligence but emotional scars that may inhibit his mentality._

_Continuing his mail as well as returning his books may alleviate his condition but permanent damage may have been done. He now seems to fully believe he will be locked inside forever, for a crime he was set up for, and denied parole by an alliance of Batman and the Arkham staff. His desire to remain in solitary to "figure out" his own animal powers leads me to recommend keeping him in solitary until he can fully control his own powers. At which point, continued medical and psychiatric help may be able to repair the damage and make him an asset to society once more._

_In closing, you can all go fuck yourselves. You should all burn in hell for what you've put him through. You call US monsters but you're willing to break his sanity because he doesn't want to be a "hero". He just wants to be a normal, fucking person, not an animal, in human form, being treated like an animal!"

* * *

_"_How long have I been in this padded cell? A week? A month? An eternity? It seems like only yesterday since that bitch Harley Quinn admitted she knew they were withholding my letters… All this time I thought they might've abandoned me, let me rot in this cell all by myself… Batman must've had a hand in it because I wouldn't play "his" game. What about the Beast transformation though? Did I trigger it? Did my mind? I've never been able to do that before with their drugs in my blood, could I be growing resistant? Why am I talking to myself like I know how to answer?"_

"_Gar, you seem stressed out…"_ Scarecrow whispers in the black room, appearing as a mirage in Gar's vision. Of course the Leatheface-looking villain isn't _really_ there before him but it's still better than no one at all.

"Bored."

"_You've been bored since the day you've come into this existence."_ Tapping the ground with his needled-hand, he asks _"Why do you continue to put yourself through this misery? Surely you have other business to attend to than this useless exile of your's?"_

"Like what? Finding out why people keep escaping. If anything, you'd know more about that than I would. Hell, you can read their minds, can't you?"

"_Of course I can. How else do you think I found out about your Watchman identity before everyone else?"_

"That name's been nothing but trouble. I never should've taken it." Pacing in the room now, Gar bites absently at a fingernail, cursing the lack of animal transformation. Cats are better at this sort of thing, not a human.

"_Names aren't more than mere words. It's the actions you take that define a name."_

"Is that why you don't look like a Scarecrow?"

A simple, jovial laugh under that leathery mask _"I suppose that's true. Still, you haven't been able to do much "watching", have you? Locked up in here like a little bird, it must be terrible. Just give me the word and you can be out of here in a heartbeat."_

"And ruin my exile? No, not yet. Still need to find out _why_ I can't control my darker Beast side."

"_Although animal biology isn't my field, I'd suggest some deep-rooted fear to be the source. Killing hasn't been your favorite crime and it's the one thing the Beast does best."_

Hand to his chin, Gar surmises "That's possible. Then again, it would only come out in the fear of dying. But that doesn't explain the need to kill everyone in sight, would it?"

From one side of the building, a fantastic crash is heard, shaking the building enough to even offset Gar's footing. "What the fuck is that?"

"_Hmm… it seems their little plan is going into action…"_ Scarecrow muses, looking towards the door. _"It was a clever idea… I wonder if they could pull it off."_

Moments after the bang, the door swings open to reveal Harley Quinn, various inmates running behind her in an attempt to escape. "Gar-baby, it's you!" No answer from the green vagrant but she doesn't let it go. "Bane came through for us! He just took out one of the asylum walls. C'mon, we can escape! You can be with your girl and all!"

Pausing but a moment, Gar eyes the blonde before him and eventually shakes his head. "Can't leave yet. I won't."

"WHAT? Gar, this is your chance! Get out into the open, fly away, go back home where you're needed!"

Turning his back to her, he reminds her "Then I'd still be a criminal. No, I'm not finished what I started."

Grabbing his arm, she's stunned to see him whirl around with fangs and eyes wide and frightful "I SAID I'M NOT GOING! I DON'T NEED HELP TO ESCAPE! NOW GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, HARLEY, AND DON'T YOU FUCKING COME BACK!"

"But, Garfield… This is it, the last time I can see you. Don't tell me you ain't gonna let it end like this!"

"End? I'm not dead, Harley, which you could be in a moment if they find you here. Now, for God's sake, get going!"

…

As the alarm continues and security shuts the door on a surprisingly-compliant Garfield, the voice of Scarecrow asks _"You really are insane, aren't you? Turning down freedom in exchange for a lifetime behind concrete walls?"_

"I'll leave when the time comes. The last thing I need is a national manhunt for me just because I want to walk on the Earth again."

"_And if you never find a way to control the Beast?"_

"Then I'll die with a clear conscience. In the meantime, I'm going to sleep."

* * *

Some distant time later, the door to his solitary cell opens with a loud shriek, the light blinding a thick-beared Garfield Logan. Hand up to block out the light, he struggles to see who it is. "Who?"

"Someone who wants to help you. Someone who's been waiting to meet you for sometime." The thick Midwest accent hangs in the air even as Gar tries to form an image of their face.  
"Help… me?"  
"You've been in here for too long. The world needs a watchman, whether you choose to accept it or not."

Standing, Gar squints as the image of the woman takes form. "World needs a lot of things… I'm not one of them."

"Well if not the world then how about people who can give you a second chance. Someone who's willing to trust you when no one else will." The image finally coming into form, the large frame of the former Cadmus head registers in his head but not a name at the moment. "And someone who wants to see you crush those Jump City thugs just as much as you do."  
"… Who are you?"  
Offering her hand, she answers confidently "Amanda Waller, United States Government. You might even say I'm the one who watches the watchman."

* * *

A/N2: Waller, the Cadmus leader from Justice League, finally steps into my story. Why? Oh, that's my business, but I'm sure you'll enjoy it. Point is he's getting out of prison now, but for what reason? Hmm... I'll explain why he's leaving with Waller instead of Harley in the next chapter. Speaking of Harley, it's a shame how it turned out between Gar and her... Still, fun while it lasted, right?

Trivia:  
- "_Kein Entweichen, nur Tod."_ German for "No escaping, only death"  
-_ "__Vous obéissez votre maître…"_ French meaning "You obey your master"  
- _"Arbeit macht Frei"_ the infamous German quote on Concentration Camp signs "Work sets you free"  
- Bane destroying the prison walls is a reference to the comics AS WELL AS an explination as to what really wrecked Arkham (the flashback in Return of the Joker)

Rhetorical:  
- How long do you think Gar was in prison before Waller got there?_  
_


End file.
